


Chance encounters

by vladnyrki



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Family Drama, Friendship/Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vladnyrki/pseuds/vladnyrki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This happiness should have been hers" The dissolution of their engagement allowed Mary to live her dreams at last whereas Richard left Downton defeated. Eighteen months later, he enjoys everything life has to offer to a single millionaire whereas she struggles against financial difficulties and a shaky marriage. A collection of snapshots about their chance encounters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brighton nights (part one)

**_ Brighton nights _ **

** 1 **

The scene unfolding in front of her by the water was almost sickeningly sweet, Mary mused as she observed a father and his two young sons flying a kite on a deserted Brighton beach. Like the trio, Mary enjoyed this moment of the day. It was the hour when the sun began to sink in the West, making the shadows stretch, drawing deformed patterns on the sand. The ebb tide let a vast, untouched playground, filling the air with the smell of salt and decomposing seaweed. Strangely enough, she enjoyed that smell, much to Matthew’s incomprehension. The noisy crowds had finally left the beach to go home and get some rest from the agitation and the sun – like her husband did – or get ready for dinner in one of the numerous restaurants located on Brighton Pier. Later in the evening the casino or the fair on the pier were distractions of choice for the carefree holiday-goers, for the ones who could afford it.

The young woman shook her head, as if the gesture alone would protect her against the onslaught of the very problems she and Matthew had tried to leave behind for a few days. This little trip was supposed to be a celebration of their first anniversary. After so many lost years, so much fear and heartache, she had finally got her fairytale ending, or so she wanted to believe when Matthew proposed and made her twirl under the falling snow. Seldom in her life had she been so happy, so deliriously happy. The few months between the winter proposal and the early summer wedding had been nothing but a dream. Mary could not help but smile at the sweet remembrance of the familial, irrepressible joy when she and Matthew had announced their engagement, the memory of the flurry of activity that had engulfed Downton with the preparations for the wedding, transforming the solemn estate into a buzzing hive under the enthusiastic command of Carson. Even the first occurrence of the family’s financial problems, enhanced by her turbulent _Grandmama_ ’s visit from the United States, and the horrible fight she had with Matthew the very day before the wedding, had barely altered her happiness.

Indeed, the day of the wedding had been everything she had hoped for. When she closed her eyes, she still could see her beautiful dress, Matthew’s gaze of admiration and adoration when she had walked down the aisle with her proud father, the hunger plain on her husband’s face when they finally consummated their marriage. Everything was perfect. She had married the man she had wanted for so long and she would be the Countess of Downton one day, fulfilling her most profound aspirations and her family’s as well.

That had been _before_.

Before that fateful dinner back in January.

Before she had learnt her family was ruined, for good this time.

Lavinia’s money had only them bought more time and, in spite of all his efforts, her father had not been able to save the situation: the ongoing postwar crisis had consumed all that the bad, foolish investments in pre-1914 Russia had not.

The memory was still painfully vivid. Dinner had unfolded as usual, under Carson’s precise supervision. Sybil was busy nursing her eight month-old baby, under Mary’s fascinated scrutiny. Branson tried to find his place in the most awkward manner, strangely reminding her of Richard. She was still appalled at her sister’s choice: she could do so much better than that! Both her own former fiancé and Sybil’s husband lacked the grace with which Matthew had eased himself into the family mold, and conquered her heart without even her noticing it.

Then her father had asked for everyone’s attention.

Between the honeymoon in Paris and the marital bliss, the news had caught her by surprise, in spite of her father’s unexpected sullenness when she had come back from France and the obvious signs of a growing resentment between her parents; she had attributed it all to Sybil’s unusual wedding to the former chauffeur. What else could it be? Matthew and she were married, at last. Furthermore, Matthew, in spite of his initial reluctance, had agreed to use the Swires’ money to save Downton; everything was alright again, wasn’t it? For a few days, she had worried that Richard had finally published her scandal, as a form of petty vengeance after her wedding had been announced in the upper-class circles as an event of the year. An exchange of angry, bitter telegrams – she had not trusted herself to hear his voice again – had proved her wrong. Richard had not even been in England, but in New Zealand, visiting his sister, and _quote_ could not care less if she had married Matthew or the Czar’s hidden spawn _end of quote_.

A fourth person had joined the trio with the kite. Hearing his mother’s call, one of the boys abandoned his toy to the wind and ran to her with a happy cry, followed by his brother, obliging their father to run after it before it got lost into the retreating sea. Mary could not see their faces, but she could hear their voices as mother and children giggled when the man barely managed not to fall gracelessly into the water as he retrieved the fleeing object. He must have heard them as well in spite of the noise of the waves: as soon as he joined them, he shook the drenched kite at them as a form of retribution before focusing his vengeance on his wife. Mary gasped in surprise, and the children laughed in delight when the tall, blond man caught the ginger woman by the waist, lifted her on his shoulder and feigned to throw her into the water.

It was unfair.

Mary was fascinated and jealous at the same time. She felt like a voyeur, observing this scene of unadulterated happiness, but could not find the will to stand up from her spot on the low wall by the beach and return to the modest hotel where Matthew and she had booked a room for a few days of escape. At the same time, she felt an irrepressible and unjust envy: this happiness should be hers as well.

Ever since her father had announced the family financial problems to everyone concerned, things had gone from bad to worse in an unexpected way. Sybil and Branson had shrugged it off – money had never been their principal worry – and had gone back to Dublin in spite of the war and her father’s vehement protestations. Edith had stayed silent, digesting the news. A month later, Mary had heard that her sister had begun to talk privately to Carson and Mrs. Hughes, devising plans to reduce the costs and save what could be maintained. Apparently, Sir Anthony gave good advice, used as he was to a smaller estate and way of life.

As for Matthew and Mary, the nightmare had begun with its share of misunderstanding and barbed retorts. Their ghosts came back with a vengeance, as she had feared the magical day Matthew proposed under the snow, and, as she had feared, they were not suitably equipped to sail such seas. In his testament, Lavinia’s father had given a more than substantial amount of money to the man who had almost been his son, to help him start a new life. In the days following the wedding, after much prompting on her part, Mary had finally convinced Matthew that using Lavinia’s money to save Downton was not an insult to the young woman’s memory. Almost perversely, she even had reminded that their future, their children’s future, could not be sacrificed on the altar of his rigid principles.

And Matthew had relented, albeit half-heartedly.

When her father announced in January that this effort the family had demanded from Matthew had been fruitless, the guilt had engulfed him once more. _They_ had insulted, even mocked Lavinia’s memory for nothing. This was unforgivable, especially after what _they_ had done to her. The idea of some shared responsibility in poor Lavinia’s death was back once again, hurting Mary deeply. Nobody but Matthew had the power to hurt her this way. She tried to reason with him, knowing deep down that, ironically enough, it was not the Swire’s money they had used, but Richard’s, and hoping this new arrangement would never reach the newspaperman’s hears. After that, their temper had flared.

In a feeble attempt at taking her mind off her troubles, Mary tried to focus her attention back on the family by the water. For now, the kite lay on the ground, forgotten, and the boys had started some kind of splashing contest. Some locals were reclaiming their beach and made profit of the ebb tide to dig out the shells left out by the receding waters. Grandfathers and children walked along the beach, trousers rolled up to the knees, straw baskets in hand, observing the ground with utmost attention. Mary smiled as she imagined her own father and Sybil’s little one in similar scenery. The image was almost ridiculous, and, worse, took her thoughts back to Downton.

She was artificial and proud, Matthew said. How could she not be? That was the way she had been raised. After all, she had been willing to sacrifice her happiness to marry a very rich man like Carlisle, as if Matthew himself had had nothing to do in her miserable attempt at moving on. _We are cursed, you and I_. The words still resounded in her mind’s ear as if Matthew had uttered them a few seconds ago. Worse, before the war, she had preferred Pamuk’s empty advances to Matthew’s steady attentions, which almost had led her to her demise, in many ways. Therefore, as far as their way of life was concerned, her advice was ridiculous.

He was stubborn and a bit of chauvinist, Mary said. He consulted for hours with her father, locked in the study, and never shared anything with her, as if the fate of Downton was nothing to her. As if she could not understand the intricacies of the management of an estate. Suddenly, she had been brought back in 1912 when her father and everybody around her talked about the entail, and did not think of making her a part of the decisions. At that time, only Matthew had deemed it necessary to address her as a functional adult, as an equal almost… He was so different back then, his middle-class upbringing showing in his every words and gestures. She used to hate this, and now, she was desperate to see a single glimpse of the old Matthew, of the awkward country solicitor. Four years of war had transformed him into the consummate aristocrat.

Their shouting matches in Crawley house terrified poor Isobel, unwilling and collateral victim of their clashing tempers. By comparison, the many arguments she had with Richard were mere heated discussions. Matthew used to save her from these discussions as if a few shouted, angry words could hurt her, as if she needed his protection from the bad, mean sea monster. Now, this role fell to Isobel who always appeared with a request that needed one of them to go to the post office or the clinic, a fresh pot of tea and biscuits. Much to her son’s shame, one day she even had alluded to the irony of the situation, comparing Matthew to Mary’s former fiancé…

Of course, in the secret of their bedroom, they still managed to find their way back to each other. Their lot did not divorce, as her Granny said, and they had gone through too much to throw the towel yet.

So they grasped at straws, like this little trip to the beach, far from Downton and its problems.

So she hoped that the lateness in her cycle she realized the week before was the sign of pregnancy, at last.

Mary let out a surprised shriek. She had been so caught up in her recollection she had not noticed one of the boys was flying the kite again, and she had not heard the shouted warning when the kite crashed less than six feet from her, startling her from her reverie.

 

-/-

 

All it took was a second of inattention. Richie called him to show the treasure he just found in the sand – some shiny, pearlescent shell – and Liam chose this exact moment to lose control of the kite. His sister Abby’s alarmed cry brought his attention back to the not so flying object just before it crashed, a mere few feet from a young woman sitting on the law wall that separated the beach from the street, her hands posed on her umbrella as if she had come out of an impressionist painting.

Damn.

However, after a quick glance in the lady’s direction, Richard was relieved to see that, in spite of the surprise, she seemed generally alright. And, fortunately, there were no angry husband or father in sight. Ignoring Abby’s knowing stare, he excused himself as she was reprimanding Liam and ran up the beach to retrieve the offending object, and, maybe, make profit of the accident.

Richard had promised Eliza to buy her a drink later this evening but it would do no harm to diversify his options, in case the evening with the pretty brunette resulted disappointing. Well, the way her eyes had boldly assessed him, almost undressing him while she played with the short curls of her bobbed hair left no doubt as far as the rest of the night was concerned, but a few words with this lady would not hurt anyone…

Two years of his failed and fruitless engagement to Mary had cured him of any urge to settle down for a good while, and, as a result, had pushed him back to his old, womanizing ways. His work and his success would be largely enough as a legacy, and Abby and her children would receive the fruits of a lifetime, like he had always thought before meeting Mary. Meanwhile, he was free to occupy his time and affections as he wished, and with whom he wished. Marriage and family were a bother, a dead weight, and he did not know what devil had possessed him to think otherwise.

The dissolution of the engagement, as painful and humiliating as it had been, had given him back the freedom he had nursed jealously and selfishly ever since he was a child. Once again, Richard was a fairly happy and satisfied man, and it was a good feeling.

He reached the kite and retrieved it, then, showing his most charming smile, he turned to the lady with the umbrella.

“I hope you will accept my apology, my lady.” Years of frequenting London high society and his engagement to Mary had taught him to recognize a woman with aristocratic roots when he saw one. “The boys are still a little clumsy with the kite…”

He meant to use this explanation to start a conversation about how nice the beach was at this time of the day. After all, she was there, sitting on the low wall, observing the locals with their baskets, when the fashionable crowds had gone back to their hotel to dress for diner.

His next planned words stayed stuck on his tongue as he recognized his former fiancée, who seemed as surprised as he was.

Just his luck.

Damn.

Standing in a sweaty tennis shirt, his face red from the sun of the day and his pants rolled up to the knees was not the way he would have wished to meet her again, not after the events that had caused them to part ways, not with Abby in the vicinity.

“Why, what a surprise. Hello, Mary.”

He had been the first to talk, and he had managed to be civil.

_Fifteen-love_

“I hope you’ll accept my late congratulations for your wedding. I suppose you’re celebrating your first anniversary. I remember reading about the ceremony around this time last year.”

She did not reply, and a shade of sadness darkened her face for a second.

_Thirty-love_

“Hello, Richard. Well, I suppose returning the congratulations is in order,” she managed curtly, motioning towards Abby and the boys with her umbrella. “I did not take you for the adopting kind of man, though. Or did you forget to tell me a little something I should have known during our engagement? I know a tale about a pot and a kettle…”

In spite of her blatant misunderstanding, she had managed to render him speechless for a second. Damn, she was still biting.

_Thirty-fifteen_

“Well, the teacher in the family is my brother-in-law, not me, and I don’t like to repeat myself. I suppose I told you once the story about my sister’s surprise and the unexpected birth of my nephews five years ago, and I didn’t care to tell it a second time. It wasn’t worth your while, after all,” he shot back more bitterly than he thought he would eighteen months or so later.

Mary stayed silent, her eyes fixing the horizon, her shoulders set in a way he had learnt to recognize as a guilty pose.

 “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

_Forty-fifteen_

After a long silence, she managed to surprise him and catch him off guard, nonetheless.

“You look good, Richard, and happy.” She had uttered the last word in a whisper tainted with a point of envy.

_Forty-thirty_

For the first time since he had recognized her, Richard observed Mary with more attention, noticing the weight she had lost since he had last seen her, the paleness of her skin, the dark circles under her eyes. In front of him sat a tired woman.

An unhappy woman.

_Deuce_

Suddenly, winning their argument did not seem so important, and, against his better judgment, he sat by her side on the low wall, careful not to  stare at her, setting his eyes on Abby and the boys by the water. In the distance, his sister waved at him in a mocking way, surely thinking he was on his way to another conquest.

“Is everything alright?” he finally said, trying not to sound too much like Crawley. “When I came back to London last spring, I heard that most of your problems were behind you so I didn’t contact you…” The accusatory telegram had made him furious, and for a moment, he had been tempted to write to his man of business in London and ask him to finish the Crawleys. Then, he had cooled off, and even had resolved for a few days to help secretly when he would come back from New Zealand. His trip to visit his sister and her family down-under had permitted him to make some good investments in the Australasian press, in Sidney and Auckland especially. Thanks to these operations and his pioneering interest for filmed and radio-diffused information, he was even richer than last year. He could afford to be mean or generous if he wished.

“Well, from a strict economic point of view, things are better, thanks to my grandmother from Cincinnati. However, the scars are still there.”

This, he could imagine. In two years, he had not heard a single positive word about the American side of the family. The Crawleys were not fond of people who managed to reach a position above them without inheriting it. In their twisted, narrow world, inheritance was synonymous of merit; hard work and social ascension were tantamount to stealing and disrespect. Owing money to such a family, not only once but twice, had to be unbearable.

Moreover, a quick glance at Mary and her concerned expression showed him she instinctively felt what was said in London: this solution was only temporary, and rural, archaic estates such as Downton were threatened in the present economic context. Great Britain was indebted to its last penny to the United States – ironically enough, the situation of Downton was an interesting reflection of that fact – and the countryside suffered from the competition from America, North and South.

“I tried to convince Papa to stay in our London house for a while, and reduce the costs, but he won’t hear a word. Matthew and I could perfectly watch over Downton from Crawley house until we find a more viable solution.”

Her voice was cold, full of barely contained resentment.

“Yes, until then, you can’t say Downton is saved…”

Mary turned to him as if he had slapped her, staring at him with teary eyes.

Hearing the hard truth was harder than merely imagining it.

Richard shrugged as a way of apology.

“You know me. I’m a practical man. If you wanted comfort, you wouldn’t be there but in your husband’s arms, swallowing his every word.”

The locals had come and gone with their baskets full of crabs and shells. The sun was low in the West and a cool wind came from the sea. Abby and the boys had returned to the hotel, and he needed to go back as well if he wanted to get ready and meet with Eliza. Next to him, Mary was shivering.

It was high time to end this conversation.

Richard was hurting her with his cold assessment of the situation of Downton, and he did not like it. Moreover, he did not want to meet Crawley again: the fact he had forgiven Mary and could be friendly with her did not necessarily mean he would be able to do the same with the rest of the family.

“Well, I sincerely hope you’ll find a way out of this mess.” He smiled honestly, a rare occurrence around her. “I trust you to push your family in the right direction.” If anything, Mary was a strong woman. “You know where you can find me should you need some advice. They say I’m good at making money, and keeping it.”

In spite of his light tone, it was not an empty proposition. It was not a joke either. Richard had not published her scandal as a way of retribution as he had threatened. In spite of all his barking, the idea of seeing Mary ridiculed in such a way was unbearable. More than anything, his animosity was directed at her father and her present husband, and their blatant hypocrisy. Secretly helping Mary to save Downton and showing them she was worth so much more than any of them would be a suitable revenge, indeed.

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you. Good bye, Richard.”

 

 


	2. Brighton nights (part two)

**_ Brighton nights _ **

****

** 2 **

****

Hand in hand, Matthew and Mary followed the other spectators out of the theatre where Griffith’s latest movie was projected. Released the year before in the United States – she could remember her visiting grandmother had annoyed them with her enthusiastic praise of Lilian Guish’s portrayal – _Way down East_ had reached England at last. When Mary had come back to the hotel from her late afternoon promenade, Matthew had surprised her by suggesting they could go to the movies this evening. Not wanting to let this unexpected change of mood go to waste – the very day before, he had complained about the prices on the pier and the vanity of the attractions in Brighton, lamenting the port was not as he remembered anymore – she had kept quiet about her earlier encounter and had chosen her newest summer dress, a navy blue outfit she had bought last year during their honeymoon in Paris. Pleased to see that Matthew’s stare was not accusatory, as it had been too often these past months, she added a pair of earrings she had purchased on her way back from the beach.

The surroundings of the modern building were unbelievably busy for this hour of the night. On the pier, the noises of the fair reached them intermittently, carried by the salty wind coming from the sea. Men wearing tuxedos and women dressed in the latest French fashions walked from a restaurant to a bar, from a club to the casino. The atmosphere was electric, in the good sense of the term. The relaxed, carefree smiles on the patrons’ faces revealed that the memory of the war was fading little by little. English people wanted to let the nightmare of the 1910’s definitely behind and enjoy themselves furiously.

At least those who could afford it.

A few days in Brighton had helped Matthew and she to reconcile after their latest, futile fight – she could not even remember what it had been about, maybe something about some childhood jewels she had been hesitant to sell – but this little trip weighted heavily on their finances. Her husband had resumed his work as a country solicitor, not wanting to walk away from Downton in a time of need even if pursuing a career in London or Manchester would have helped a lot on the economic front. Lavinia’s money, then her grandmother’s help had provided a much needed respite, but most of his wages were consumed by the maintenance of Crawley house and their servants: she had finally managed to convince her father to let them deal with their own house, at least until things markedly improved.

“This is rather a nice night. How about a drink before we walk back?” Matthew suggested, his hand coming to rest on her back, his thumb gently caressing the skin her dress revealed.

They were back on track.

For now.

Smiling, Mary let him guide her to a darkened club called _The Smoking Cat_. For all his modern ideas, Matthew had some rather old-fashioned notions a precise idea about the place men and women occupied in society. He did not mind women’s vote, but, at the same time, he was deeply convinced that a woman needed a man’s protection and sometimes guidance – his incessant interventions when she and Richard used to fight had been quite revealing, and the way he always had set the rhythm of their relationship as well. In spite of Richard’s assertion, she was not as sharp as he had thought, and she enjoyed the way Matthew slightly pampered her. A few notes of ragtime reached their ears even before they stepped across the threshold. Once inside, the smell of smoke and alcohol was almost overwhelming. A quick glance at her slightly coughing husband revealed that he was quite outside his element as well.

This made this excursion even better. It was their little adventure.

A few seconds more, and her eyes got used to the relative darkness. The room was scarcely lit, as if to enhance the intimacy of the place. Booths sheltered couples more interested in each other than the rest of the world. If it was possible to distinguish the forms, there was not enough light to make out the patrons’ faces. In this club, darkness was a shelter against inquisitive eyes.

On the scene, a band played Scott Joplin’s _Entertainer_ , much to the dancers’ delight.

“I am afraid all the tables are occupied,” she heard Matthew above the music. “Do you mind standing by the bar?”

“Not at all.”

They asked for two conservative martinis and settled to observe the other patrons on the dance floor.

Among them, a couple caught Mary’s attention as they followed the swinging music. Richard had changed into a tuxedo and was currently entertaining a pretty brunette who appeared to be a few years older than Mary, with bobbed hair and a risqué green and black dress. So many bars and clubs in Brighton, and Matthew had chosen this very place…

“Isn’t this _Carlisle_ over there?” The surprise and disgust in Matthew’s voice were evident.

“Looks like him,” Mary answered with as much indifference as she could muster, trying to suppress the unwelcome and unexpected surge of jealousy she felt as she watched his hand linger much longer than necessary on his partner’s hip. When the woman’s own hand started to play with the curls at the base of his neck, Mary sought refuge in her martini, not wanting to consider the implications of her visceral reaction.

 _She_ had broken off their engagement eighteen months ago. He was free to do as he pleased, and flirting with this brunette seemed to please him very much, if the teasing smile on his face was any indication.

 _She_ had chosen Matthew over him eighteenth months ago. Who he was seeing was not her business anymore, and she should not have been relieved when he had told her the ginger on the beach was his sister.

Yet, she was jealous.

Jealous of his insouciance.

Jealous of the smiles and caresses and soft kisses he reserved for his partner.

Their engagement had lasted two years, and she had never been on the receiving end of this kind of open, flirty affection he displayed right now.

But, to be entirely fair, she had never showed so much outward affection either. Mary observed the couple as they rejoined their table where their drinks waited for them. The woman’s hand rested on his back, on his shoulder, never leaving him as they walked. When they sat in the comfortable darkness of their booth, she caught a glimpse of a feminine hand caressing his cheek.

Maybe, if she had been a little bit more affectionate with him…

“Don’t you have any regrets?”

Matthew’s question startled her, and she turned back to consider him. Much to her sadness, she was ready for a fight and she did not know why.

“What do you mean?” she asked sharply.

“I mean, your life would be much better now, and Downton would be probably safe…” He did not need to explain what or who he was referring to.

Mary opened her mouth to answer back a few chosen words. She could not believe he was saying that, not after having been so intent on sabotaging her relationship with Richard.

Not when she suspected she was pregnant, at last.

The genuine insecurity and doubt, and a stubborn darkness she knew too much, made her speechless nonetheless. So this was the root of everything.

Misplaced, self-centered guilt once again.

However, she just would not let him retreat in his shell. Not this time. She was tired of this game.

Resting a hand on her husband’s shoulder, she stood closer to him, as if she wanted to kiss him.

“Don’t you dare give up on us, you hear me Matthew? Don’t you dare.”

And she kissed him to prove her point, not caring a second if such a display of affection in front of the barman bothered her husband or not.

 

-/-

 

Eliza was funny, flirty and stunning in her green dress. A vehement, divorced suffragette, she used her vivid paintings as political and social weapons, and she animated, among other artists, a virulent expressionist circle in London. And she was probably one of the most forward women he had ever met. The evening was progressing as expected, or even better. Now that they had retreated to the darkened shelter of their booth, sipping their drinks – gin fizz for her, Talisker single malt for him – she made sure he remembered the bet they had made on the dance floor.

She was bold and little tease at the same time, that he conceded, but he was sure she would not go that far.

When he felt her hand settling on his thigh under the table, he began to think he had to reconsider his assessment, and tried to remember his Latin declinations. For a little while, it almost worked. At first, her hand stayed motionless, then, it started creeping upward in a featherlike caress. It stopped once again, on the top of his thigh this time but it seemed to refuse to progress further. He was relieved and frustrated at the same time, and grasped at his last straw, the third declination, in vain.

“It feels like I’m winning our little bet, darling,” Eliza whispered in his ear, letting her breath caress the sensitive skin.

“Or not,” he replied, taking her hand from under the table and kissing it apologetically. Richard had just recognized Mary and her husband standing by the bar, caught in some kind of argument. The scene he witnessed, Matthew’s defeated expression – a face reminiscent of the day of Lavinia’s funeral – and Mary’s angry gestures, had the effect of a cold shower on him.

Part of him, the former fiancé in him, wanted to grab the man by the collar and have a long, long discussion with him.

Part of him, however, the selfish part in him, wanted to leave the Crawleys behind and enjoy this more than promising evening.

Fortunately, Mary took the decision for him as she got up, caught her husband by the arm and almost dragged him to the dance floor.

_Well done, Mary. Don’t let your husband spoil your evening…_

The expression on Matthew’s face as he tried to follow the music was hilarious. Obviously, a quick two steps was not a favorite dance for the knight in shining armor.

Satisfied with what he had witnessed, he resumed his attention to his own companion, on her inviting lips more precisely. As he let her take the initiative and deepen the kiss, he thanked the darkened atmosphere of the _Smoking Cat_ not for the first time of the evening. Eliza was right, it was great place, and he hoped she knew more clubs like this one in London.

However, for the time being, they would need a much more discrete place very soon. Richard broke the kiss reluctantly and addressed her with his most charming smile.

“Shall we go?”

“Where?” She enjoyed the game, indeed.

“Wherever you want…” He played with her curly hair, twisting a lock around a finger absently.

“Well, if you go and buy a bottle of champagne at the bar, I know a place where we could go on with our evening.”

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her suggestion.

“Trust me, darling, you don’t want to taste the poison they call champagne in my hotel.”

“Alright then.”

He helped her to stand up and, as she retrieved her things, he walked through the crowd of the patrons to the bar, a cigarette in hand. As he waited to pay the bill, and his bottle of Champagne, he recognized the voices on his right and turned to acknowledge them. For a second, he was tempted to cover for their bill as well, just for the fun of it. Poking at Crawley’s pride could be quite interesting. He was about to call the barman when he caught Mary’s warning stare.

His intention must have been clear on his face.

However, Richard contented himself by being the first one to salute his once rival and congratulate him for his wedding. He even managed to utter an invitation the next time the couple would stay in London, the kind of rhetorical but symbolic invitation they would not honor, and neither would he, of course. He finally retrieved his bottle and wished them goodnight, not without addressing Mary a pointed stare. Satisfied with her steady and assured expression, and Matthew’s absence of answer, he stepped out of the club.

Eliza was waiting for him, quietly playing with her cigarette-holder, her big brown eyes openly undressing him like the previous night.

_Game, set and match._

-/-

Matthew was sleeping on his side of the bed, or feigned to sleep. The lack of his usual light snoring seemed to indicate the latter. Mary let him be: both needed to digest the seriousness of the conversation they had on the way back from the club.

Meeting Richard at the club had ruined their first romantic evening in more than a month, and tears filled her eyes as she imagined how this could have been a wonderful and affectionate, passionate night. However, it had been a blessing as well, for it had forced long buried worries and insecurities to come to the surface at last.

Of course, nothing was fixed. Nothing was simple. To be fair, their relationship always had been complicated: the entail, Pamuk, Richard, Lavinia, the financial difficulties… But, now, she could begin to understand what kind of doubts plagued Matthew, and poisoned their marriage.

Now she could fight for their marriage, even if her husband did not want to at the moment.

Watching Matthew’s back, she let herself regret the much simpler life she could have had if she had accepted the idea that more than one man could ever love her.

Mary had made her choice, and she had to stick by this choice.

It was her duty as the Earl of Grantham’s eldest daughter, as the heir’s wife.

It was her duty to Downton and her family.

And, as Granny said, their lot did not get a divorce.

However, this evening, she would have given anything to be the carefree brunette dancing with a smiling, happy Richard…

 

-/-

 

The bottle of champagne had yet to be opened, and rested forgotten somewhere between the door and the bed. The hotel was simple but nice, Richard mused as he let himself be lulled by the sound of the waves filtering through the open window. He stroked Eliza’s hair absently, enjoying the silky feel of it. The way she rested on his stomach, her head on her crossed arms, a teasing smile on her lips, was very nice too.

Her smile widened, revealing an adorable gap between her front teeth. Conscious of this imperfection, Eliza rarely grinned widely, which made the moment all the more precious.

“So? Champagne?” She gestured in the vague direction of the abandoned bottle. “Or?”

“Champagne, yes, but later…”

Eliza crept up from her resting position and settled on top of him, grinding their hips together. He closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the initiative and the sensation. Richard always liked his lovers feisty. As he lifted a hand to cup her small breast, he mused he would not mind repeating the experience in the following weeks.

Not at all.

Simple and uncomplicated. That was the way he liked his relationships: having meals in good restaurants and sipping cocktails in fashionable bars, fooling around between nice sheets or in a scented bath, and, most important, no heartbreak in the end…

 “I quite like you,” Eliza said with a cocky smile as she gripped his shoulders and coerced him to sit up. “I suppose we could meet again in London…”

His hands settled on her hips and he grinned. It would be fun while it lasted, indeed.

She bit his ear lightly making him groan before whispering: “And you can call me any name you want to in bed, I don’t mind.”

 


	3. Glasgow nights (part one)

**_ Glasgow nights _ **

 

**_ 1 _ **

**__ **

“The exhibition is a total success!”

“Indeed…” Richard commented with a teasing smile, clearly amused by Charles Mackintosh’s enthusiasm.  The newspaper man and the architect exited the red-brick museum and began their uphill progression to the grey, solemn university of Glasgow where Charles was supposed to give a conference.

For once, Richard remarked with no small amount of satisfaction, few clouds tarnished the early autumn sky and Kelvingrove museum appeared in all its baroque glory under the bright sun.

Good.

Years of experience in the information business had taught him that, as long as the newspapers could present photos of sunny scenery and enthusiastic visitors for the first day of an even, said event had a good chance of being remembered as a success. The first day was the key, and the heavens had been kind enough to grant them this wonderful weather. Tomorrow could bring the usual lot of clouds and rain, it did not matter: Charles was right, the exhibition was success.

For the first time in six months of preparation, publicity campaigning, invitations and other logistics, Richard could consider himself as a happy patron. Turning around to glance at the Spanish baroque church-like building – a strange visual papist intrusion in a city where Episcopalians and Catholics were at odds more often than not – Richard felt it was high time to enjoy the Cuban cigars he reserved for occasions like this. Reaching for the inside pocket of his coat, he produced two Havanas and handed one to his friend.

“Well, considering the amount of work and money, it’d better be a total success,” he deadpanned between puffs of smoke as he lit his cigar.

“Somebody’s grouchy…” Charles teased, playing with his own cigar before putting it in his inside pocket. “Trouble in paradise with a certain painter?”

“Nothing’s wrong with Eliza,” Richard replied more harshly than he had intended.

Indeed, his relationship to the extravagant expressionist was still very _fulfiling_ to say the least. Eliza was a passionate and enthusiastic lover, and, at the same time, knew when to give him his space when he needed it. Furthermore, she had been a considerable help for the organization of this exhibition in Glasgow, even if she was not part of the exposers.

No, Eliza was not the problem.

Mary on the other hand…

The week before, she had finally accepted the help he had volunteered the last time they had met in Brighton. She had visited him in London to ask for some advice and he had been bitterly surprised by the still discrete but unmistakable bump indicative of a pregnancy. Since then, he had been in a foul mood without being able to explain this sudden surge of bitterness. Mary was history after all…

Sensing his friend’s inquisitive stare, Richard changed the topic of their conversation. “Not smoking? They’re first quality, you know.”

“Oh, I trust you on this account…” Charles smiled. “I’m just saving my breath for the walk uphill.”

“Still no improvement?”

Richard knew his friend’s health had worsened lately, and the toll taken by the organization of the exhibition was not the only culprit.

“Barely,” Charles confirmed his suspicions between two short, shaky breaths.

“This city is going to kill you, you know…”

Even if Glasgow’s industrial glory was part of the past, the city’s darkened façades and the persistent smog were the testimony of the ongoing activity in the local factories and heavy industries. Often, Richard viewed Glasgow as some monstrosity that swallowed the people attracted by its mirage. The dynamic economy gave work to half of Scotland, or even more, but at the same time, the precarious living conditions and the polluted air condemned many to a miserable and shortened existence. Chronic pulmonary conditions and tuberculosis were common occurrences here that were not reserved to the lower-classes, if Charles’ worsening state was any indication.

“I hear a snob from Edinburgh talking… Next, you’re going to tell me to move to your beautiful New Town, aren’t you _Richie boy_?”

Richard smiled at his friend’s teasing. Even if he had been born and raised in Edinburgh, he had left the city as soon as he had finished with school to go and study fine arts at the Glasgow School of Arts in a supreme act of rebellion against what he perceived as the timid conservatism of an intellectual, middle-class family from Morningside. If on his mother’s side, the reactions had been rather mild and amused – from Inverness, both Glasgow and Edinburgh were populated by snobs – the same could not have been said about his father’s side. One of his uncles, the family hero at the time – he had been a Latin and Greek professor at Edinburgh University – had decided to stop talking to him. For a few years, the news coming from his hometown had been scarce – coming from his sister most of time – and his rare visits to Edinburgh had been received with cold politeness. Ironically enough, the day he moved to London to go on with his social ascension, which should have been considered as the worst treason, everybody burst with pride, and even his uncle Liam.

The boy was beating the English at their own game, and the newspaper man replaced the professor as the hero of the family. In Inverness, amused indifference was still the rule.

_But it had been worth it._

Glasgow was the place of innovation, the origin of the Glasgow Boys and the Mackintosh School of Architecture, whereas Edinburgh was not: it had been a simple choice, actually. Most of all it was the place for political ebullition – the constitution of a _soviet_ in Glasgow in 1919 was the latest testimony of that – a place where he could put his ideas about a new style of journalism into practice…

Following his father’s steps did not mean to lock himself in a stuffy and archaic paper.

“You know, if I’m not mistaken, I lived more time here than in old Edinburgh, so maybe you could start to consider me as one of your own.” He was one of their own, he knew that perfectly well, but they still liked to tease him a bit, about his origins, his accent, not nearly as strong as true Glaswegians’, his tastes in sport…

Charles snorted.

“You still prefer rugby to football.”

Predictable.

“Speaking about sport, it’s finally official, I’m the majority shareholder of Hull FC. Another thing we’ll have to celebrate this week, what do you say?”

Charles took the bait, fortunately.

“Well done, old chap! Investing in professional rugby? Your former future father in law would have had a heart attack.”

After the engagement ended, the architect had been the main confident of Richard’s frustrations and regrets. Charles had given some good advice too, without which a certain story would have surely eclipsed the scandal of an English lady, the sister of an earl, who had revealed she had been married to a German diplomat since 1914. The postwar atmosphere was so heinous that Richard could have got away without even getting his hands dirty and compromising his own papers that tried to keep away from the blind hatred directed at the _Huns_ and their allies. From Richard’s point of view, there was still a distinction between good juicy scandals – he had a preference for the ones that gave him political leverage – and blatant paranoia.

The over powerful Lord Northcliffe on the other hand… He had totally lost control these past years and the mere evocation of the enemy – German, Turkish or more recently Bolshevik – had him foaming at the mouth…

In spite of the real possibilities, and his need for revenge, Richard had chosen a wiser course; this he was able to recognize almost two years later, and he had concentrated his efforts on developing his activities to the next level. In a few years, if everything went on as planned, he might even be able to buy Downton or pay the family debts. Of course, he would not do this: he had had enough with bloody Yorkshire already, and selling Haxby _at a profit_ was hard enough in the present economic context. However, imagining the Crawleys’ humiliation should he make the offer was… _priceless_.

“I hope he’ll choke on his breakfast when my interview is published in the local papers!”

Both men laughed in earnest. It felt so good to be able to joke about this not-so-glorious period of his life.

When they reached the park of the University, they were still chuckling like school boys, imagining the Earl’s and the Dowager’s reaction to the latest room Charles had redesigned in Haxby, full of geometrical forms, Asian influences, in which a stained glass created by Charles’ wife occupied a place of choice. Trying to compose himself before entering the venerable building – he had a reputation to maintain – Richard guided his friend to the main courtyard and searched for Eliza who had been waiting for them.

Their _arrangement_ was not public knowledge, but it was not an absolute secret either, especially in the big, dysfunctional family of artists of all kind. Her presence at an exhibition he had sponsored would not raise any flag.

Richard spotted her, wearing a light brown ensemble he had bought her in Paris, he hardly contained the happy smile that formed spontaneously on his lips and waved at her.

Eliza waved back enthusiastically and motioned them to join her under the colonnade.

When they came nearer, the smile on Richard’s face froze as he recognized the people who were chatting with his lover.

Lady Edith and her husband, Sir Anthony Strallan.

Lady Mary, with no husband in sight.

What the hell was _that_?

-/-

It had been all Edith’s idea…

What she had expected to be a few days of carefree escape was rapidly turning into a true nightmare. First, they had bumped into Richard’s mistress who, _of course_ , had recognized Mary, and, _naturally_ , had presented herself as one of Richard’s many collaborators for the exhibition he sponsored, not without fixing on Mary a knowing, piercing stare. Then, her former fiancé had made his appearance, laughing in earnest, stunning in a grey suit tailored in the latest American fashion. The now familiar feeling of jealousy and bitterness resurfaced, as it always did lately whenever she read about Richard’s latest success or saw him in person, confident, happy, carefree. Once an egoist like Richard – at least she had believed she was – Mary had radically changed the way she conceived happiness after the summer of 1914 debacle: it was not something she could build and grab by herself, but an ideal that could only be achieved with the right and unique key, Matthew. Witnessing how successfully Richard managed on his own made her envious, and made her long for her deeply buried former self.

Yet, at first, following her sister and her husband to Glasgow had seemed like a sound idea to Mary. The city was dirty and smoky but, at the same time, there was a real dynamism. The West End, Siege of Glasgow University and many parks, attracted Mary in a strange, unexplainable way. The Great Western and Byres roads hummed with cars activity, pubs and restaurants, cars and coaches. Down the hill, Kelvingrove Museum hosted one of the most astounding exhibitions she had ever witnessed, even in London. In this place, forgetting all the problems in Downton seemed easy, and Mary was quite thankful for her sister’s suggestion.

Once more, the atmosphere at home had been sour lately, to say the least. After much hesitation and pondering, Mary had shared her doubts about the viability of the estate with her sister when she had come back from a much deserved honeymoon in the southwest of France. During the war, Anthony had built a solid friendship with a young officer who served as a liaison between the Allied forces. As soon as the man had received news of his former comrade in arms’ wedding, he had proposed an old family house by the Ocean, a simple but enchanting place if Edith’s enthusiastic recollection was to be believed.

Even before their wedding, Edith and Anthony had multiplied their efforts to rationalize the management of an archaic estate, advising their stubborn and overwhelmed Papa, convincing Matthew that, for once, nothing was his fault, that there was absolutely no way he could have foreseen the Russian debacle in 1913. Nobody could have foreseen the European disaster, even the politicians who had launched a war that should have been over by Christmas 1914 at the latest.

With Edith and her husband gone for a couple of weeks, Mary and her mama, who had managed to recover from the shock and bitterness at last, invited themselves forcefully to the management of the estate. Her mother wanted to watch what was done with her own mother’s money, and Mary argued she did not want to leave an empty shell to her unborn child.

This _coup_ had been accepted with much reluctance, but it had been tolerated nonetheless. For the first time since the first financial crisis had broken out, Mary had had access to the accounts and other papers. Many she did not understand, and a long buried resentment at her lack of education resurfaced with a vengeance, but even she could notice that some structures had not changed since her great-grand father time, or even before. The technicalities eluded her, but she could perfectly understand the implications of a contract signed in 1828, a tacit agreement prolonged in 1854…

The estate was archaic.

Deep down, Mary had known it for a long time. She had not protested much when Richard had coldly voiced her worst suspicions earlier this summer. No amount of patches and stitches could save Downton. What the estate needed was a radical change. The feeling was overwhelming, the responsibility frightening. However, very soon, she would hold her child in her arms; it was his future that was at stake now, the life they could offer him, or her, the quality of the education...

So, on an impulse, she had taken up Richard on his offer and went to consult him in London under the pretense of visiting her aunt. He had been busy but had patiently listened to her nonetheless between two appointments. He had taken the documents she had brought with her, and had promised to call back as soon as possible.

True to his word, he had called her three days later and shared a few promising ideas of modernization and creation of a cooperative. As he explained to her, the results he had obtained at Haxby were encouraging, and he had good hopes to sell the modernized estate at a fair price to an American buyer in a foreseeable future. Unfortunately, Matthew had come back unexpectedly earlier than usual, and the ensuing argument had been ugly. The following day, her father’s outrage had been even more spectacular. Nothing was worse than a man’s wounded pride, and both men had flat-out refused the advice, not even the help, coming from a man they despised so much.

Had Mary announced she had had an affair with the publisher, their reaction certainly would not have been so violent: they could have turned Richard into their scapegoat once again and their pride would have been left intact. This realization had made her so angry that, when Edith announced her plans for the weekend, she ignored Matthew’s hurt stare and decided she would go to Glasgow as well.

She needed an escape.

But she did not need to meet Richard in such a state of mind.

Mary sighed heavily. Charybdis and Scylla was much more her story now than Andromeda and Perseus.

“Good afternoon, Richard,” Mary managed to blurt out as he and his friend joined her group under the Victorian colonnade, cringing inwardly as she realized she had forgotten to address by his title. _Sir_ Richard, this was who he should be to her now. Then, she turned to his companion to introduce him to Edith and Anthony. Suddenly, without really knowing why, she needed to reaffirm her place in Richard’s life.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mackintosh.” She did not dare to push her luck and address him with his first name, as he had urged her once, when they had first met in Haxby, a lifetime ago. “This is my sister Lady Edith, and her husband Sir Anthony. Edith is a great admirer of your wife’s work.”

Mary noticed with no small amount of satisfaction that she had beaten Eliza to the line. The woman might have shared Richard’s bed for the past few months, but Mary had been engaged to him for two years, for God’s sake. Of course, the ugly had surpassed the good, by far, and she had never let him go beyond the chaste kiss on the cheek or, more rarely, on the lips. However, she could recognize now that their connection always had been genuine in spite of everything, as shown by their ability to argue bitterly then to manage and find a fragile but real truce: their parting the morning he had left Downton for good was the best testimony of it. These past few months, she had reevaluated this period of her life, and saw it not anymore like a sad and painful parenthesis, an interruption of her ongoing story with the love of her life, but much more like a path she could have taken if she had wanted to, a path she had chosen not to follow, not because it was a bad one, not because Richard was an awful man – like the rest of her family still thought – but because it was not what she wanted at that period of her life.

Maybe she had also lacked imagination at the time…

“Good morning Mary,” she heard him acknowledge her greeting, forgetting her title as well. Old habits died hard. “Lady Edith, Sir Anthony, let me congratulate you for your marriage.” The laughing expression she had noticed as he and his friends had walked closer had been replaced by an expression of surprise, and slight discomfort. Obviously, Richard shared few traits and qualities with Matthew, and the ability to cope with the first meeting of his former fiancée and his present lover was not one of them.

“I see you managed to entertain yourself while Charles and I were finishing the grunt work down here,” he addressed Eliza, with just a little hint of sarcasm, inaudible when you did not know him well.

“I’m here as a tourist and a spectator. I don’t see why I should have come and deal with two idiots with inflated egos fighting for a wall like bull-terriers fight for a bone.” Her answer swung back, sharp as a knife, her joyous expression still firmly in place. Mary had to concede she was a good match for Richard, as far as wits were concerned.

“Well, you could have avoided a deplorable, hysterical fight just before the opening of the doors,” Charles cut in, always the pacifier. “Richard had to grab the fighting morons by the collar and literally drag them downstairs as the first visitors were stepping in. Ten minutes later, they were back upstairs, a great deal calmer, and Frank had a bleeding nose he did not have just before…”

“Poor darling,” Eliza teased her lover, ignoring his wide-eyed expression of uneasy surprise. “People always think that the life of a patron is so easy, signing a check and sitting back with a big cigar with a satisfied smile.” She motioned to the still-smoking one dangling between Richard’s fingers. “Reality is so, so much crueler. Dealing with big egos, beating up skinny artists, launching reprints of thousands of posters just because one of your typists is _illiterate_ and _ignorant_ the week before the event…”

“Let’s not talk about this particular incident, shall we?” His downcast eyes betrayed his growing uneasiness.

Mary had the feeling that Richard had not been on his best behavior in this occasion. The man was a controlling perfectionist after all. Unable to contain herself, she joined the teasing with a smile of her own.

“Let me guess, a poor man’s ears are still ringing days after convocation at Richard’s office.” An angry Richard was a loud Richard. A professionally angry Richard was properly terrorizing.

“Some people say the poor man is scared to be in the same room as his boss, even in a crowded room,” Charles joined the banter as well, voluntarily enhancing his Glasgow brogue in a mocking tone.

“What was the mistake? A very common thing, anybody could have noticed it,” Eliza pressed on, visibly enjoying the game.

“Indeed, the offending word was in the presentation of Toulouse-Lautrec, I believe…”

“Oh, yes! _Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec_ , _French painter born in 1864 in Tou…_ ”

“In _Albi_!” Richard shot back. “Not the same town, not the same department, not the same thing, for God’s sake!” A week later, the incident still unnerved him, obviously.

Always the perfectionist.

On her right, Mary could see that her sister was giggling in earnest, seemingly enjoying an aspect of Richard’s personality that had never had the occasion to surface during his visits to Downton.

“In all honesty, Sir Richard,” Anthony cut in finally in his most appeasing tone. “I would say that, considering my interests and knowledge of painting, I am quite close to most of casual spectators, and I would have never noticed such a mistake.”

“Conclusion, you behaved like an arse, my friend, and you owe us a good dinner,” Charles softened the blow with a pat on Richard’s shoulder. The architect then turned to Mary, Edith and her husband: “Would you like to join us tonight? I would be delighted to talk some more.”

Ignoring Richard’s silent but vehement protestations, Eliza insisted, “It will be a pleasure, and the more this _gentleman_ spends on this dinner, the more acutely he’ll learn this lesson.”

Oblivious to Mary’s pointed stare and muted threats, too enthusiastic at the idea of having dinner with an artist she had admired since her teenage years, Edith agreed with a big smile of her own.

“What time do we need to be ready?”

 


	4. Glasgow nights (part two)

**_ Glasgow nights _ **

**__ **

**_ 2 _ **

 

Eliza had been true to her word and had forced him to spend an indecent amount of money on dinner. In spite of his instinctive disdain for unnecessary expenses, Richard had paid for everything good-naturally. The quality of the wine and champagne the sommelier had suggested for each course had helped greatly to improve his mood. The fact that his worst fears for this impromptu dinner were not confirmed had helped a lot. Lady Edith had literally cornered Charles and his wife, and had spent the whole evening chatting with them, revealing a quite impressing amount of artistic knowledge. Meanwhile, a somewhat abandoned sir Anthony joined the rest of the group in a political discussion about women vote – a sore topic for Eliza who was an active suffragette – and revealed surprisingly modern views, and, at the same time, a true pedagogical talent Richard sorely lacked to explain the mechanisms of the 1918 Act.

“So, if I understand clearly, the law still excludes the great majority of women because the Conservatives are afraid of some hypothetical Bolshevik landslide,” Eliza repeated dubiously, her cup of coffee forgotten in front of her.

“To sum up, that was the strategy in 1918,” Sir Anthony confirmed apologetically.

“Still, I already told you about my doubts last Christmas, Anthony,” Mary cut in. She never had been as open as Lady Sybil about her political opinions, but she nursed some strong ideas about the lack of equal treatment women suffered. After all, she had witnessed firsthand the effects of such outdated conceptions. “I can’t help but think that, at the root of this decision, there is a fundamental distrust of women’s ability to make the right decisions.”

“Exactly!” Eliza exclaimed, obviously glad to find a fellow thinker and having forgotten about whatever plan she had earlier in the afternoon. “Right now, the advice of an educated and politically independent young woman is worth less than the advice of a barely literate miner, indoctrinated by his union or the local church.”

Even if Richard agreed heartily with everything that was said around the table, he did not know if he should be relieved or frightened at the idea that Mary and Eliza could get along.

“You’ve been quite silent, darling. What do you think?”

Always trust Eliza to drag him out of his refuge. Damn woman.

“I think I’m going to enquire about the bill while you decide where we’re going next.”

Ignoring the disdainful frown she gave him, he got up and left the table. Doing so, he caught a glimpse of Mary’s genuine and knowing smile to which he answered with a conspiratorial wink. He noticed also who the recipient of Eliza’s insistent stare had been since the second course, and when the stunning blonde waitress made profit of his absence and discretely smiled back, Richard knew his plans for the rest of the night would not involve his lover.

Eliza had definitely a thing for blondes.

The fact he was the only one to be authorized to leave his things at her place and to have a key to her apartment in London just did not mean he was the only blonde in her life. If it was the price to pay to be forgiven his occasional slip-ups in bed, and his own few indiscretions, so be it. Richard could see himself living a long time under such a tacit agreement. Ever since their first encounter, they had agreed they would not be mutually exclusive, and the first sign of jealousy on either part would be the end of their relationship. Eliza was a free spirit, and she had preferred the social stigma associated to divorce to the compromising of her freedom and independence. On the other hand, Richard had felt in less than two years enough jealousy to last him a lifetime and words such as engagement, wedding, eternal fidelity were bound to make him run for cover.

Having paid the bill and escaped from the maître d’ and his litany of compliments, Richard walked back to the table.

“So, the night’s still young. Any more ideas to make me spend my money?”

“Well, this old couple is going back home and have some tea before bed,” Charles announced apologetically. He looked quite tired indeed.

“I think we are going to follow this wise example.” Edith said. “We want to get up early tomorrow to drive up to the Loch Lomond.”

“Good choice indeed, Lady Edith,” Charles commented. “If the weather is nice, be sure to rent a boat.”

“Tell them you’re friends with Mark Carlisle’s son. My father is quite a celebrity among the local fishermen,” Richard added automatically, as if Lady Edith was an old friend, and was not part of the family who literally had thrown him out.

He had drunk too much.

Damn.

“Thank you,” Edith answered and shook his extended hand heartily. “Mary? Should we wait for you or do you prefer to rest a bit tomorrow?”

This indirect allusion reminded him of a fact that had bothered him for the past week, a fact that he had almost forgotten this evening.

Mary was pregnant. Pregnant with the other man’s child.

Damn.

“I think I will have a lie-in. Have a good day tomorrow.”

“So, it means we’re down to the three of us, doesn’t it?” Eliza cut in, her poker face firmly in place.

Richard could not believe what she was up to.

“Or the two of us,” he answered back, knowing well enough he would be on his own very soon. It was a good thing though, he was tired to the bone. “Maybe Mary needs to get some rest as well.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew his mistake. Never assume Lady Mary Crawley is in no state of doing something, she would do anything to prove you wrong.

“Actually, I’m quite all right. Is there a place you would recommend to an innocent lady from Yorkshire?” she enquired as the group exited the restaurant and waited for their cars. Once the Mackintoshes and the Strallans were out of sight, Eliza dropped the act.

“Well, it’s my turn to bid you good night, Lady Mary. It’s been a pleasure.” Then she turned to Richard and gave him a brief kiss. “Have a good night, my darling,” she whispered as she reached for his breast pocket and slipped something in it.

How dared she?

Before she walked away, he gripped her hips and drew her to him once again. “Should I this as a sick way to assuage your guilt for tonight?”

“Take it like you want, my darling.”

With that, she stepped back into the restaurant with usual carefree grace.

Sometimes, Eliza could really drive him crazy with her audacity. The fact she had involved Mary in this stupid game angered him in way he did not care to analyze too much.

“What was that about, Richard?”

-/-

Mary was confused, to say the least. One moment, some devil had pushed her to agree and follow Richard and his lover to whatever bar or club they used to frequent. She had had the feeling he did not want her there, and her kneejerk reaction had been to be contrary without thinking about the consequences and the implications of her actions. Another moment, she stood on the pavement in front of a fancy restaurant, closing her eyes to a disgustingly tender moment, only to open them to see Richard on his own, and the sound of a door closing back.

“What is going on?” she insisted.

Unexpectedly, Richard raised sheepish eyes at her.

“Let’s say Eliza has other plans for tonight…”

Mary did not understand.

“The blonde waitress,” he explained, his uneasiness growing by the second.

Mary did not want to understand.

“Are you all right with this?” she asked, finally deciding to step closer to him. This way, he would not have to speak too loud, and, also, his body would shelter her from the sudden cold and windy drizzle.

Richard shrugged, and she recognized the almost boyish expression that usually accompanied such gesture.

“Well, we’re not married. And I’m no saint either.”

The admission was followed by the mischievous smile of a ladies’ man.

“So, you were right, it’s the two of us, after all,” she paraphrased him, and defied him at the same time. For the first time since their chance encounter in Brighton, for the first time at all, actually, they were alone together. Truly alone. “What do we do?”

Obviously, Richard had not expected this reaction from her, and he was considering her prudently.

“You should be more careful, Mary. Some men could interpret your words the wrong way.” His voice was calm, with only a hint of restraint. “Especially in your state.”

A sudden blush crept to her cheek as she realized the meaning that could be read in her comment.

Then, all the color drew back from her face when he confirmed he had guessed about her pregnancy.

“You must feel as if I’m using you again,” Mary stuttered. “I’m so sorry, Richard. I just didn’t know how to…”

“That’s alright. To be honest, the way you’re fighting right now is a quality I admire in a future mother.”

The compliment left Mary speechless. Until now, except for Edith, the familial consensus had been that Mary should not be that involved in Downton’s future and should focus on her pregnancy. She was bearing the possible heir to the title, after all.

Richard was silent, too, as if his compliment had taken him by surprise. His hands buried in his pockets, his eyes focused on his shoes, he seemed to consider his next move hesitantly.

When the drizzle became pouring rain, he made up his mind.

Mary felt a warm hand taking hers and gently guiding her back to the entry porch of the restaurant.

“Wait here for a minute.”

With this, he walked back into the restaurant, leaving a bewildered Mary behind him.

This day was more and more unsettling by the hour, and she did not know how to deal with the unexpected feelings that threatened to overwhelm her, a dangerous mix of anger, sadness, jealousy, envy, curiosity, incomprehension… Most of all, she had sought refuge in Glasgow this weekend, but she was shocked at the easiness with which she relegated Downton, and Matthew, at the back of her thoughts.

She had almost proposed an affair to Richard!

Mary could not believe she had uttered such words to him.

Behind her, the door opened and closed again, and a gentle hand went to her shoulder.

“You’re cold. Let’s go somewhere else.”

Richard hailed a taxi and told him to leave them at the corner of Byres Road and Great Western Road. So they were going back to the West End, the University area, where they had met this afternoon.

What was he up to?

Then Mary noticed the bag he was holding. “What is this, Richard? Where are we going?” she enquired with a hint of worry in her voice. Deep down, she knew she did not have to worry. Richard could be a bastard, but he was an honorable bastard, in his own strange way.

“This? Candles, a thermos of tea and two cups. You can’t drink, and I’ve had enough,” he explained as if it was evident. “As for the destination, it’s a surprise. But I guarantee you’ll enjoy it, if you accept the concept of trespassing on public property.”

Before he could go further, the car stopped. They had reached their destination, whatever it was. Fortunately, outside, the pouring had stopped, but not the wind. Some stars could be seen between the dispersing clouds.

“You seem very familiar with the neighborhood,” she commented as he guided her again, his hand on the small of her back.

“Well, I studied four years at the School of Arts, then I began working for the _Daily Herald_ , as a caricaturist, photographer then editor, shareholder and finally owner. I only moved definitely to London in 1914, when I obtained my knighthood.”

“So you managed your rising empire from the far away North?”

“I just have the ability to sleep anywhere. I used to take the night train down to London on Monday evening, work in the down there until Friday evening when I took the night train back home.”

“What changed?”

“With the knighthood came new responsibilities, more invitations to fancy dinners and balls…” Lost in his reminiscence, Richard gazed at her with gentle and slightly amused eyes, the way he used to in the weeks that followed their first meeting.

His nostalgic allusion to their first meeting was devoid of any bitterness, which comforted her in a strange way.

They now stood in front of a side gate to the Botanical Garden. Mary hid her pleased surprise: she had planned to visit the glass-house the next day, and the idea of discovering it with Richard was very nice.

Or was it the idea of knowing him a little better? The amount of wine and champagne he had drunk this evening seemed to lower his usual defenses.

“I hate to state the obvious, but the gate is closed,” she objected nonetheless, her taste for sarcasm taking the better of her. “And, even if I wasn’t expecting, I wouldn’t even try to jump over this fence.”

“Woman of little faith,” he answered back with a mischievous smile and produced a set of keys. “During my second year, I used to date the guardian’s daughter who lived in the house at the main entrance. She had a double of the keys made so that we could meet at night in the glass-house. Then she got married to some pub owner and left me the keys as a parting gift.”

“But that was, what twenty years ago? They must have changed the lock…”

“There’s something you need to know about us Scots,” he commented as he opened the gate effortlessly and gestured for her to walk in. “Why spend money needlessly when the old lock still works perfectly?”

Mary smirked, and followed his lead into the gardens.

Once the gate was closed again safely, they walked silently to the glass-house. The wind had chased away the clouds almost as suddenly as it had brought them earlier, and the cathedral of steel and glass appeared in all its surreal glory under the moonlight. Richard did not lose any time and opened another door and motioned her inside.

The warmth was the first thing Mary noticed, then the heavy smell of vegetation and wet ground. Finally, as Richard lit a candle and gave her a tour, she discovered the tropical luxuriance the glass-house sheltered. A main path circled around the garden, punctuated by benches where the visitors could rest and enjoy the atmosphere. Smaller paths led the visitor among the banana trees and other species, giving him the small taste of a walk in a tropical forest.

“You were right, I like it here,” she declared as they settled on a bench, accepting the warm cup of tea he poured for her.

“Glad to hear it. It’s probably my favorite place in the city.”

“Great place to bring a woman?” she teased.

“And to sleep, read for classes, write articles, devise business plans…” Richard commented nonchalantly, opening yet another window on his past. Had she known alcohol made him so talkative, she would have forced a whole bottle of whisky down his throat years ago. Maybe things would have turned better, this way.

Or, maybe, she should have accepted one of his numerous invitations to Scotland.

In the candlelight, she saw him raise his own cup in some kind of toast.

“To the inventor of these magic bottles,” he declared, gesturing to the thermos.

“A toast to the Germans? Beware Richard, maybe Lord Northcliffe has a spy hidden under the trees at the very moment. Imagine the _Daily Mail_ tomorrow: _Bolshevik concurrent surprised while trespassing on public property and acting as propagandist for Germany!_ ” Unlike her present companion, she did not have the excuse of alcohol to hide behind, but she could not stop the carefree banter.

It felt so good.

“Ignorant woman,” he accused her with feigned indignation. “The concept had been invented by James Dewar, born and raised in Fife, Scotland. The Germans just launched the mass production.”

“I stand corrected. My apologies.”

“If you think about it, you English owe us Scots your world domination, you know,” he went on. Even in jest, his pride to be a successful Scot was evident in his every word.

“How so?” she humored him.

He settled his tall frame more comfortably on the bench, his head now almost at the same level as her shoulder, and began his enumeration.

“Let’s see: Adam Smith, David Hume, Lord Kelvin, James Watt, John MacAdam, Alexander Graham Bell, John Boyd Dunlop, James Dewar…”

This was not just some nationalist enumeration and those names resounded much more like some kind of personal pantheon, the examples he had chosen to follow as a young, ambitious Scot.

Instinctively, her arm went around his shoulders, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on his upper arm.

Richard did not protest, visibly enjoying the attention and leaned into her a bit more: he really was a ladies’ man. Mary realized now how much the formality and coldness of their engagement must have been a torture for him. He had been really out of his element, and she never had given him a single chance.

And now, less than two years after their break up, here they were, cuddling in the middle of night, chatting like old friends.

It was disturbing.

She was bearing the love of her life’s child, and she desired another man, the very one she had ignored and despised so much.

Even so, as if acting on its own, her hand left his shoulder and reached his cheek.

Again, he did not protest, his only reaction being a slight clenching of his jaw that could mean anything.

After the disaster that had been their trip to Brighton, she announced her pregnancy and had tried to convince Matthew to start again, to build something anew, for the sake of their child. For a few weeks, she almost thought they were back on track at least. However, things had degenerated quickly after Edith’s wedding, and it was not Matthew’s fault anymore, but hers, entirely hers. Seeing her sister so happy, sharing so much with her husband had made her reconsider her own situation. The picture that had appeared in the crude light of cold reality had been disheartening.

Mary was not happy in her marriage.

The fairytale was over.

And Matthew and she had been sleeping in different bedrooms for a month now. They had not made love for even longer.

Succumbing to the temptation, she bent her head and brushed Richard’s lips with her own in a tentative kiss. At first, he did not protest, or respond. Then, he sat up a little to cup her cheek and consider her gently. His thumb caressed her lips lightly.

“Let’s not do something we might regret in the morning, shall we?” His voice was taut with restrain. He wanted her, this was obvious – it always had been obvious – but he was reluctant to play her game once more. She could not blame him for that.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t toy with you like this, I’m sorry.” Mary tried to disentangle herself from him, restore some distance between them.

He would not move.

“I mean, are _you_ sure you won’t regret it come tomorrow?” Richard repeated seriously. “An affair is serious matter. You could lose many things, beginning with your self-esteem.” His free hand stroked her belly lightly before retreating to his thigh.

Honestly, she did not know. Unwanted tears formed in her eyes. She was pregnant, stuck in a collapsing fairytale and unable to have an affair when she desired it so much.

She felt ridiculous.

“I thought so.” Richard deep voice seemed far away as he sat up completely. The moment was over, she thought sadly.

Then, his arm went around her shoulders, mimicking her former gesture, and he engulfed in a tight, friendly but nevertheless comforting embrace.

“So, I need you to clarify a great mystery for me,” he asked her in earnest, not bothering to hide his curiosity, his tone light and amused once more. “Since when have you and Edith been such good friends?”

His incredulity at this novelty was obvious.

“It’s a long story…” Saving Downton was their common goal, and their past differences had suddenly seemed so unimportant compared to the task in front of them.

“You know how much I like a good story.”

Mary settled comfortably against his shoulder and started her recollection of the events of the past months. She had never noticed that the combination of tobacco with his aftershave smelled so good.

 


	5. London nights (part one)

**_ London nights _ **

**_ 1 _ **

Being six-months pregnant could be a social nightmare, as Mary had recently discovered. No amount of artifice or invention could hide her condition anymore, which meant that her social life in a world of secrecy and discretion would be on hold for a good year at least.

One simply did not put her pregnancy on display.

However, her condition could have its perks as well, as she was noticing during the reception held at her Aunt Rosamund’s London house for the New Year. She did not have to act as if her feet did not hurt in her pair of brand new heels and could share with her Granny the privilege of claiming a seat on the most comfortable sofa. There, guests had to walk to Mary to salute her or engage in conversation. Moreover, the sofa was strategically located at the opposite end from the scene where a hired quartet improvised jazzy, American inspired tunes, which was an added bonus.

And, most of all, she could _observe_.

From her position, in the periphery of the reception, forgotten by the guests too happy to occupy the center of the scene, nothing could escape her attention.

The hasty adjustment of a dress strap or the vulgar sneezing when one thought to be away from prying eyes gave her a glimpse of the guests’ unmasked persona.

The stolen, forbidden glances and gestures between an earl and a countess who was not his wife revealed her hidden secrets and restrained passions.

A clenching of a jaw or an exchange of hard cold stares unveiled barely concealed tensions and animosities.

Mary had not sat for more than a couple of hours, and she was beginning to understand how her Granny had gained this acute insight about the people surrounding her, and the human nature as whole. A most precious quality one might say. And Mary had been especially grateful for her grandmother’s special talent since Matthew’s proposal two years ago. Indeed, without the Dowager’s observations, and her inability not to interfere when confronted with an inconvenient problem, Mary and her husband would have probably married their respective fiancés without admitting the truth about the nature of their feelings.

Only recently had she begun the question the wisdom of her Granny’s intervention, which had led her to a near slip-up in Glasgow last autumn. Mary still could not believe she had almost broken her marriage vows so easily, with Richard of all people. If the Dowager had worked to make the idea of a marriage between Matthew and Mary possible once more, Richard, quite ironically, had been the one who had saved it thanks to his restraint and rather unexpected understanding.

Ignoring the little voice that kept questioning the foundations of a relationship that needed constant outside interventions to go back on track, Mary had come back from Glasgow feeling guilty, unable to share the indignity of her guilt with anyone and well decided to erase it by making a decisive effort in the right direction.

Her fairytale could be a reality once again. It had to be.

From the other side of the room, Mary noticed her husband’s tender and protective gaze, and answered him with a radiant smile. Her three days’ trip to Glasgow had been a wake-up call for him as well. Since her return from Scotland, he had showered her with little attentions, intent on seducing her again, and had even persuaded her father to accept her insight about the future of Downton, implicitly forgiving her for asking help from his former rival. The pregnancy that had been a source of tensions, interrogations and insecurities previously was finally the source of unadulterated happiness it should always had been. In spite of the worsening backaches and other inconveniences, Mary had rarely felt so happy, so complete.

Of course, entering the final months was also the moment when she had to bid farewell to the most part of her wardrobe and accept the idea that the elegant slender silhouette that had made her so proud for years would be modified by motherhood. However, compared to Matthew’s adoring eyes as he observed the way the baby’s movements deformed her belly, to the wonder in his voice when his hand could feel their child’s kicks and turns, those changes were simply unimportant.

-/-

If something could be said about Lady Rosamund Painswick, it was that the woman knew how to throw a party. With the notable exception of the quartet who would not have been Richard’s first choice – their pitiful attempt at jazz would make any musician from New Orleans laugh to be honest – everything else was simply perfect. The newspaperman could not help but be impressed at the ease with which he nosy widow had managed to create both an intimate and social event for the New Year. On the one hand, silver and glass decorations complimented the Art Nouveau spirit of the newly renovated room, and the lavish Christmas tree in the main hall reminded the carefully chosen guests of the necessary joyful spirit at this time of the year. On the other hand, the list of guests gathered the most influential members of a profoundly divided Liberal party.

Clearly, celebration had not been the only preoccupation in Lady Rosamund’s mind when she had decided to defy the family tradition of Christmastime at Downton and throw this rather unexpected party. Her late husband had been one of the main sources of finances of the party in the past, which must have put him at odds with his very conservative in-laws, and the wealthy widow was known to be a force to contend with; a discrete, manipulative, womanly influence that even the most powerful members of the party had to respect.

When Richard noticed the Prime Minister’s presence among the celebrating crowd, he finally understood the reason for his own most unexpected invitation to Lady Rosamund’s party. At first, the thought that she perhaps wanted to buy his favors and act as some meddling intermediary in order to save the family almost made him refuse the invitation. Then, he convinced himself that there was no way that the Crawleys would accept this breach in their carefully crafted Christmas protocol, and he let his curiosity get the better of him.

As Richard observed Lady Rosamund approaching Lloyd George with a glass of champagne, and wearing a stunning dark blue dress that was sure to make the Prime minister more receptive to whatever her project was, the tycoon felt he had been right to be wary of the widow’s meddling tendencies. When she waved at Richard and invited him to join the conversation, he hid his amused smile behind his own glass before strolling nonchalantly to the duo through the crowd.

He had been right when he had thought she wanted to reconcile him with someone.

He had been wrong about who this _someone_ was.

Lady Rosamund’s move was most understandable, though. Ever since the Marconi scandal, the relationship between the two men had been strained, and their reconciliation in 1916 that had helped Lloyd George to his present function in the government had only been temporary. The Prime minister and Richard had been at each other’s throats for the most part of the last year, since the tycoon had publicly called the politician a bloody traitor when the latter had decided to side with the Conservatives to win the elections. During their latest encounter in November, they had almost come to blows over Richard’s 1919 campaigning against the Prime Minister’s leniency about Churchill’s secret and illegal stunt against the Bolsheviks in Russia.

“Gentlemen, please be mindful of Christmas truce and try to be civil, will you?”

With that, their host navigated through the crowds to salute another group of guests.

_Bloody meddling woman._

“A good evening to you, Prime Minister. How have you been lately?” Being the first to speak in such a situation always gave you the advantage, Richard had discovered after two decades of dealing in the business of newspapers. Starting the conversation forced one’s adversary to answer whether he wanted or not.

“Please, this kind of civility doesn’t suit you, Richard.” Unlike the newspaperman, the politician never tried to hide his Welsh accent. “Let’s go to the point: I need you.”

“And you needed Lady Rosamund to throw a party to tell me that? A bit complicated, isn’t it?”

“Well, I couldn’t take the risk of being thrown forcefully out of your office before being able to talk, could I?”

Richard took the barbed jab at his intransigence and known lack of patience in stride. Lloyd George’s unexpectedly conciliating tone had made him curious. This evening could bear interesting fruits.

“What do you need me to do? If you pay the price, I can do anything, you know that, _Dai_.” Using the traditional Welsh nickname was a way to put them of a level field.

“And what would your price be, _Richie_?” The question was purely rhetorical. Like many independent Liberals, Richard wanted the end of a coalition that was only beneficiary to the Conservatives and to the rising Labor party. If Liberal wanted to survive, they needed to reclaim their autonomy and their particularities.

“Depends. What do you need?”

Ten years of tensions and adversity had made both men wary of each other.

“I need people to get used to the idea of losing Ireland, and I can’t think of anybody but you to build such campaigning.” This veiled compliment cost the Welsh a great deal, as his helpless frown revealed.

“Good Lord, you’re asking the impossible, _Dai_.” Richard played hard to get. A week of heavy campaigning before the signature of the treaty by the Parliament was more than enough.

“Well, _Richie_ , I quite remember you hadn’t needed more time to cause our fall back in 1912…” The memory of the Marconi scandal was still a bleeding wound.

“Easier to make a government fall than convincing people that the British Empire is crumbling on its foundations…”

“No need to go that far. Don’t take your desires for reality. We’re only talking about Ireland.” The Prime Minister sobered up. “Will you do it?”

“Can I get Churchill’s head?” Richard’s hatred for the man was visceral, and personal. One of his nephews had escaped unscathed from the Western front only to be sent to his death in Russia in December 1918.

“You can’t, you know that, Richard. How about Lord Fitzpatrick’s and his friends’ heads?”

The Scot stared at the Welsh dubiously. Would the politician have information Richard had not obtained yet?

“I thought they were out of reach…”

“Well, my _friend_ ,” Lloyd George put a conniving hand on his shoulder in spite of their difference in height. The public, friendly gesture was a masterstroke. Everybody in the room would think they were allies again. “I suppose pretty and independent painters are outstanding lovers, more exotic than Lords’ secretaries, I concede, but they don’t have access to the same kind of precious information.”

_Damn the bloody womanizing politician._

Richard gritted his teeth at the allusion to his own affair with Eliza. One month ago, the painter had decided that London was too _stuffy_ and Berlin was the place to be to embrace the expressionist richness. They had parted ways amicably, but Richard still missed the easy companionship she had provided for the last six months.

“Well, I try to never mix business and pleasure,” he replied back. “So, dear _Goat_ , one week of heavy campaigning then I get to play with Fitzpatrick? I like it. That’s a deal.”

Richard extended his hand first. For the ones observing, he was the one proposing the deal, not the contrary. The field was level again, and Lloyd George’s grimace expressed this realization as efficiently as a long discourse.

“That’s a deal.”

They shook hands, cementing publicly their new alliance.

However, the shrewd politician could not leave without reasserting his domination. He was the Prime Minister.

“Isn’t it your former fiancée sitting over there?” he whispered in Richard’s ear, forcing him to bend a little to listen to what the Welsh had to say. “I see an heir is in the making.”

Richard had to restrain himself not to turn around too abruptly and betray how much Lloyd George’s aim was accurate. _Of course_ , the Crawleys were here, as well. How could he have thought otherwise? Considering their situation, coming to London for the Christmas season and renew precious contacts was a good move, economically and strategically. He had been a fool to convince himself of the contrary.

He had to get away as soon as possible.

“Never mix business and pleasure? I clearly remember you were quite intent on covering the traces left by an oblivious and very Conservative family two years ago. I hope you got some reward in your lengthy engagement, _Richie_.” The man knew how to deliver low-blows.

“ _Careful_ , Prime minister… I heard some of your children were getting tired of some of your _habits_.” Richard put his hand on the politician’s shoulder and pressed, reminding the man of their difference of stature. Gone was the false friendliness, they were back to threats, once again.

Lloyd George retreated hastily. Clearly, he needed this campaigning badly.

“So the cold and careful Richard Carlisle was in love after all.”

-/-

 

“I always tried to ignore your political misgivings, Rosamund, I tried.” The Dowager barely concealed her frown of indignation. “But, don’t you think that inviting Lloyd George _and_ Richard Carlisle at a party you insisted we absolutely had to join in is awkward at the very least? Did you really have to subject Mary to this man’s presence again?” Disgust replaced indignation in her voice.

Mary almost snorted at that last comment. If only Granny knew… The past year had taken its toll on the Dowager’s heart, and the general consensus had been to protect her as much as possible. So, nobody had spoken a word about Mary’s treason when she had phoned Richard for advice; and, of course, she and Edith had kept the unexpected encounter in Glasgow to themselves. Mary knew that her sister suspected something had happened that evening, and could not be more thankful for the improvement of their relationship lately. A few years back, Edith would have used her suspicion with glee… Now, her secret was safe with her sister.

“Well, Mama, on the one hand, Lloyd George is the Prime Minister, whether you like it or not. As such, he has the power to give you a little respite from next year’s taxes and, as a consequence, make your lives in Yorkshire a lot easier. On the other hand, he needed Carlisle’s support once again,” Aunt Rosamund replied back with a clipped voice, rolling her eyes at her mother’s lingering prejudice against Richard. “I’m not too fond of Carlisle either, I can assure you, even if we share some political opinions. Call this an exchange of services.”

“Let’s only hope neither Robert nor Matthew crosses path with him, that’s all,” the Dowager concluded with a hint of fatalism in her voice.

Mary gave an indulgent smile to her grandmother. For all her health problems, her Granny still possessed her uncanny ability to adapt to unwanted situations.

“Why do you think I sent Robert and Matthew to admire the new billiard table in the smoking room?” came her aunt’s snappy retort.

Mary let her aunt and her grandmother´s usual bickering fade into the background as she observed Richard _at work_.

It was an impressive sight.

The unexpected jealousy she had felt while spying him in a seducing mood last summer in the secrecy of _The Smoking Cat_ had caught her by surprise. However, this was nothing compared to the feelings awakened by the way he expressed himself as much with words she could not hear as with his expressions and body language.

His smile was charming and mocking one second, then cold and cruel one second later.

His eyes were focused on his interlocutor, gauging Lloyd George as if he was not the Prime Minister but a simple guest.

Richard used even his height, looming over the smaller man to assert his domination in their heated exchange.

He was in his natural habitat, and his every gesture expressed his assurance.

When he was not at Downton, when he was anywhere else, in Brighton, in Glasgow, in London, Richard Carlisle was a very attractive man.

For very different reasons from her grandmother’s, Mary started to question the wisdom of her aunt’s strategic move. The memory of her near slip-up was too fresh, the current truce with Matthew too fragile.

The wave of desire she felt could not be attributed to frustration anymore, and was all the more disturbing and frightening.

Not for the first time since this autumn, Mary used her guilt as a crutch. She had chosen Matthew and Downton, she had to stick by this choice.

_For better for worse._

_For richer for poorer._

_In sickness and in health_.

For her unborn child, she needed to make her marriage work. For the sake of the love for Matthew she had secretly nurtured for the most part of five years, Mary could not desert her husband or Downton, it was simple like that.

She would be able to build her own happiness with the cards she had dealt herself, and she would not think about the cards she could have played with.

In the middle of the crowd, she glimpsed Richard as he shook hands with Lloyd George. Both men had reached an agreement, apparently. However, before they went their separate ways, she saw the Prime Minister whispering something in the publisher’s ear, gesturing vaguely in her direction.

It was too late to hide.

The evident surprise and discomfort on Richard’s face showed he had not expected to meet her here at all. Then a fugitive expression of hurt passed on his features before he clenched his jaw as he turned back to the politician. Richard’s back was blocking her view partially, but she could tell how tension had replaced his previous relaxed attitude by the way he set his shoulders. What he said, or the way he uttered it must have been terrible: all the color drained from Lloyd George’s face before the man raised his hands in apology.

As she feigned to accept her grandmother’s line of reasoning and her suggestion to go to another room, Mary made her escape and walked through the crowd to join her husband in the smoking room. In the opposite corner of the main room, next to the band, she saw Richard approach Lady Virginia, whom her husband had abandoned earlier in the evening, and invite her to join the dancers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. London nights (part two)

**_ London nights _ **

**_ 2 _ **

Mary joined Matthew and her father, who were admiring the woodwork and the delicate green felt of the billiards table in the smoking room, a refuge her aunt had strategically provided for the Crawleys. She teased her papa and husband about their rather boyish and endearing comparison of the merits of the ivory and celluloid balls, then, having regained her composure, went back to the main hall. As she strolled back and joined her granny once more, gone was the sudden agitation that had prompted Mary to walk away in the first place.

A few minutes at Matthew’s side had comforted her as to the validity of her decisions in past two years. She had made the good choices, she was where she belonged. It was a certainty, and Richard’s unexpected reappearance in her life this evening should not have affected her the way it did.

The feeling of déjà-vu was too overwhelming.

Of course, the scene was very different. Winter had replaced summer; Aunt Rosamund’s elegant and modern townhouse had replaced the extravagance of Cliveden. Gone was the subdued atmosphere, the latent shame that the guests could not quite hide at the idea of maintaining the season while their sons, husbands, brothers, fiancés were fighting in the mud of the trenches. Instead, the assurance of the victor was palpable in the men’s posture – those who had fought like her husband, those who stayed behind the scene and were relieved to live in a British Empire strong and reassuring as ever – and the need for distraction and celebration was blatant in everyone’s eyes and carefree smiles.

However, the show Mary spied now from her hiding place was oddly, and unsettlingly, familiar. Just like in the brightness of Cliveden ball room long ago, just like in the darkness of _The Smoking Cat_ not that long ago, she watched Richard as he entertained another brunette. Lady Virginia’s wayward husband still had not returned, and  she was still enjoying Richard’s company, _very much so_ , if her barely restrained flirtatious smile was any indication when the newspaperman joined her with two glasses of champagne.

“I suppose you feel relieved you didn’t choose Richard in the end.”

Her aunt’s clipped voice startled Mary from her reverie. “I beg your pardon?”

Aunt Rosamund tipped her own half empty glass in Richard’s direction. “You know the adage. Once a womanizer…” Two years had come and gone, and the wound inflicted by Lord Hepworth’s deception was still bleeding. The familial and deep rooted prejudice against Richard’s character was still alive, as well.

“It’s so fortunate that Matthew came to my rescue, isn’t it?” Mary shot back more icily than she intended.

She loved her husband. God knew she loved him. But she was tired of her family’s repetitive, obsessive refrain about the right choice she had made in the end. If you believed them, Matthew had rescued her from Bluebeard himself, no less. It was unnerving, to say the least. For Goodness’ sake, even Matthew had recognized that he had not saved her from a doomed destiny, and he had apologized about his past constant interferences. This newfound honesty, and Mary’s own secret guilt, had been the basis of their fresh new start when she had come back from Glasgow. Why could not the rest of the family accept this as well, once and for all?

It was this constant pressure that had made Mary question her past choices for the first time last autumn. It was this continuing demonization that had led her into Richard’s arms, _almost_.

Unable to stop herself, Mary went on. “Thank God I saw the truth in time and I escaped the clutches of a womanizing and blackmailing bully.”

In her anger at her family, Mary was not entirely fair, she knew it deep inside. Since her teenage days, she always had possessed a strong taste for dramatics, and she had quite enjoyed playing the part of the captive heroine back in 1919, much to Richard’s incomprehension, then anger. To be totally honest, her former fiancé’s behavior had been far from spotless, but she had fed his resentment almost gleefully, and she had sought refuge into the comfort of the familial solidarity.

Richard was no angel – he would scoff at this very notion – but he and she both had given birth to this monster that her family still liked to remember with indignant fright.

“Well, Mary,” the Dowager interrupted. “You can’t accuse your aunt of blatant hostility. She invited him to her reception after all.” The disgust in her voice clearly revealed her own unhidden hostility.

“For political purposes only,” Rosamund replied with a smile that did not reach her eyes, visibly anxious to clarify her position. “It’s not because I deem Sir Richard an efficient tool for the Liberal party that I think he would have made a good and suitable husband for Mary.”

“Too much of a cynic, or too much of a womanizer, may I ask?” Mary joined the battle. “I remember clearly you were sure he and poor Lavinia had an affair in the past…”

“A little bit of both, I suppose,” her aunt answered. Piercing blue eyes began to consider Mary with sheer curiosity. Obviously, her new-found sense of protectiveness as far as Richard was concerned had not gone unnoticed.

Mary cringed, she had to be more careful, she could not fight against another wave of familial indignation like last autumn.

“May I add that the ease with which this man manages to attract the attention of a married lady reveals a blatant and horrendous lack of scruples? I can already read the headlines in tomorrow’s papers…” The Dowager’s voice trembled with indignation as she observed the scandalous scene enfolding in front of her.

Mary’s grandmother never had hidden her antipathy towards Richard, and she had actively worked to sabotage the two relationships she had deemed unworthy. Was it because she had felt before everybody else what Mary and Matthew had denied for so many months? Was it because she could not accept these unexpected obstacles to the greater good of Downton? This was an uncomfortable conversation Mary needed to have one day with her granny, a dreadful prospect she did not look forward at all. But it was not the right time yet. For the moment, Mary simply accepted the idea that some truths were better hidden in the depth of family secrets.

_For now._

Mary fought against a wave of unexpected and incomprehensible anger, trying not to utter the snappy retort that came to her mind. Why was she so intent on defending her former fiancé’s character?

“Well, Mama, it seems that you won’t read any unsavory headlines tomorrow.” Aunt Rosamund barely concealed her gleeful triumph as she tipped her cup in Richard’s direction once more.

And it was _déjà-vu_ all over again. Richard’s seducing smile had frozen for some unknown reason and was slowly morphing into an uneasy grin underlined by his sudden paleness. As at Cliveden, an unexpected obstacle had put an end to his projects for the night, and Mary knew what would follow.

First, there would be the agitation that replaced his normally controlled gestures.

Then, the apology in his awkward smile would follow and accompany the slight tilt of his head.

Finally, the dignified but quick steps would lead him to the nearest refuge.

When Richard reached the door to the terrace, Mary hid her smile behind her glass, strangely reassured by this constant in her life and inwardly satisfied by this outcome. Ignoring once more the voice questioning the nature of such an unwelcome feeling, she chose to examine her aunt’s gleeful and unsettling satisfaction. Obviously, it had nothing to do with the memory of a past insult, and everything to do with some not so obscure plan Rosamund had devised for this evening. Mary could not help but feel curious, and protective.

“Aunt Rosamund, I sincerely hope that political matters are the only reason why you invited Richard tonight.”

The sudden paleness of her aunt’s face was enough to confirm Mary’s suspicions. She added: “However, if it isn’t the case, I have to give you fair warning. Richard’s a creature of habit, and he seems to have a clear type.”

A type Mary was part of, and her aunt was not, fortunately.

Deciding that the atmosphere of the room was getting more suffocating by the minute – Aunt Rosamund was spending a fortune in central heating to allow her guests to enjoy a warm evening in spite of the biting cold outside – Mary stood up and went to retrieve her shawl.

Fresh air would do her some good.

-/-

Thanks to the freezing temperature, the terrace was a welcoming and lonely refuge. Richard let the cold breeze clear his thoughts. He remembered too clearly Lloyd George’s creepy grin, his cruel eyes and the not so discrete allusions about a great way to begin a new year. But it was what had saved him. Without the Prime Minister’s glee at seeing Richard, his antagonistic ally, or best enemy, about to stray into a shameful affair, the publisher could have become the very subject of a tasteless article in one of his own papers. Still angry at his incomprehensible obliviousness and lack of caution, he reached into his inside pocket to retrieve a cigar and sought some comfort in the routine he associated to smoking one of his precious Havanas.

With practiced gestures, he cut one end of the cigar, and let the discarded stub fall down to the ground. The flame of the match briefly lit Richard’s surroundings, revealing the shadow of some curious chimera that adorned the terrace, then disappeared. A few puffs made the end of the cigar glow in the darkness and, finally, the rich taste of the smoke filled his mouth.

“You really look like you have just escaped from the devil’s clutches, Richard.” A clearly amused voice teased him behind his back. “Lady Virginia is a married woman, though, and thus, she isn’t very likely to try and strong-arm you into a marriage between the second and the third waltz.”

He did not even need to turn around.

_Mary._

In spite of his best efforts, and his previous resolution not to cross path with her or the rest of the Crawley tribe this evening, Richard let a nostalgic smile form on his own lips, making profit of the fact Mary was still standing behind his back. The allusion to their first encounter was too deliberate to be ignored…

“Well, not unlike marriage, the affliction that threatened me should I have decided to pursue my little project further is a rather bothering one with long lasting consequences,” he explained, hoping that marriage had led Mary to a better understanding and knowledge of this kind of inappropriate banter.

Her unladylike snort was all the answer he needed. A married and pregnant Mary was a more amusing and challenging company than an engaged and mooning Mary, even if the husband was the bland Matthew Crawley.

“I suppose she didn’t reveal her horrible secret voluntarily; and you wouldn’t have invited her to dance in the first place if you had known beforehand.” She had not moved from her spot behind his back, but the sound of her voice was enough to allow him to visualize her face at this moment.

_The smile of a cat which just ate the canary._

“The Prime Minister’s too insistent grin gave me a clue. I’ll have to remind him of the proverb about counting one’s chickens before they hatch one of these days,” Richard explained. “My memory filled the blanks, fortunately.”

“Fortunately, indeed. I suppose I don’t want to know the big unsavory secret behind all this.”

_Typical._

Mary had been rightfully afraid of her peers’ reaction to her own dirty secret. She was one of them after all, and she shared the same taste for gossip. The upper-class lived on gossips and scandals, but only between the safely closed doors of their establishment. That was why they despised the newspapers so much, not because of the content – more rumors circulated during one evening than during one month of weekly publication – but because of the way the information escaped their control. As a consequence, Richard was a hawker of scandal when he printed them, but he was almost one of _them_ when he strategically shared his information during a party or in the secret of a hotel room.

“Well, if I may, you ought to know in order to warn your lady friends properly. Lady Virginia is a victim actually, and many say that her husband’s repeated infidelities are the cause of her current affliction.” Richard could not help but humor her. This story was well known all around London after all, and he could not believe how he had forgotten it so easily, even for less than one hour.

“Let me guess: many twisted minds believed these voices.” For some unknown reason, Mary did not seem too fond of poor Lady Virginia and her marital woes.

“And prudent people try their best to avoid the husband as well as the wife.”

“Or they are blessed with a good memory. I have to confess that my grandmother would have had a field day if your reputation had been compromised by this terrible affliction.”

Richard leaned on the iron railing that separated the terrace from the dark garden, suddenly fascinated by the glowing embers of his smoking cigar.

“Why I’m not surprised? But I suppose I could have ruined her enjoyment between two secret trips to a discrete clinic by revealing to attentive ears that Lady Grantham and Lloyd George do share some common traits after all.” Richard followed Mary’s lead happily, anxious to forget about his near _faux-pas_ , to ignore the fact that the reason for it was standing right behind him.

“It would have ruined everything, you’re right.”

Mary’s voice was not at his back anymore, and Richard could glimpse at her pregnant silhouette and her full forms as she mimicked his posture by the railing, still not making eye contact but visibly enjoying their exchange of hypothesis about his sex life and her family’s enduring animosity.

Against all his expectations, Mary – prone to dramatics and tragedy, to whom he had been engaged for two years – had decided to act as if whatever had transpired between them in Glasgow was what it had been exactly, an unimportant, innocent and enjoyable incident with no consequences.

Well, that was a relief, and two could play this game.

“I must be such a disappointment for your grandmother,” he went on, only half-joking behind his cocky smile.

“Don’t overestimate yourself, Richard.” The sting of her words was softened by her mischievous gaze, and the use of this very sentence awakened a bittersweet nostalgia in him. “I doubt she ever had great expectations for you.” Mary cringed at her own words, as conscious as he was that they were suddenly entering a dangerous territory, a territory of shouted, angry words and barely veiled threats. “Not that her expectations, or my family’s, have much validity outside the confine of the estate, mind you.”

Richard did not answer, focusing on the glowing end of his cigar once more.

“I suppose I’m trying to say that my family’s prejudice was simply too strong. You could have been a perfect knight and they still would have found something to criticize your character and personality, as they still do.”

“I suppose I often made it quite easy, didn’t I?”

“And when you didn’t, I managed perfectly well on my own to create more drama and provoke you into acting like a jealous fool.”

Surprised by this last, unexpected statement, Richard turned around abruptly to consider Mary who was still leaning on the railing, her own eyes lost in the distance.

_Shared responsibility._

He could deal with that.

Almost as quickly as their conversation had slipped into a perilous territory, they had managed to get out of it, unscathed.

It was a nice change.

Last June, he was still seething at the mere thought of Mary and her goddamn family. Half a year  and a few encounters later, not only they were back on speaking terms – much more than that if he was totally honest – but they had managed to do it on their own. Maybe it did not matter to Mary, but Richard took some pride in the idea of being able to repair a past relationship – his only serious one to this day – without any outside help but pure luck.

However, this did not mean he still did not hold a considerable grudge towards her family, and her husband.

“More seriously, though, I do hope that your family will not take my presence here tonight as a personal slight.” His words could be perceived as an apology, but his lowered tone was implicitly threatening. “Your aunt invited me there and I know for a fact that Christmastime in Downton is somewhat sacred.” He still could not believe that Lady Painswick had taken the risk of inviting him at a party attended by the rest of her family. What was she thinking?

“I know, and _they_ will know as well, believe me,” Mary’s own voice was conciliatory and firm at the same time.

“Isn’t it a bit late for that?” Richard smiled ruefully, his own eyes following the course of a single, lonely cloud in the cold, starry night.

Two years later, the memory of Christmas 1919 and the Crawleys’ general hostility was still an open wound, for his pride and for his affections as well. The feeling of sheer betrayal that had engulfed him as he had sought refuge in his room was still there, simmering just under the surface – after all Mary had not even lifted a finger to object that the pitiful brawl had been caused by Crawley’s inability to face the ugly truth and not by an honorable act of chivalry on the brave heir’s part.

“Well, yes and no at the same time.” Mary’s subdued words probably were the closest thing to an apology he would ever get about this sad period of their lives. Then the rather unexpected and almost unwelcome protective tone was back. “I don’t want to sound like a jealous former fiancée, but you should steer clear from my aunt, at least as much as you can considering your common membership of the Liberal circles. I’m afraid she has some designs on you.”

Richard almost chocked on the smoke of his cigar and turned around abruptly, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“I beg your pardon?”

His very first impression when he had stepped out of the car had been the right one: the Crawleys were a mad lot.

_Arrogant and self-centered, just like him. Hypocritical and irrational, most unlike him. No wonder his association with this family ended in disaster._

 

**__ **

-/-

Mary could not believe she had actually put her nagging suspicion into words, in front of Richard of all people. A quick look at his incredulous and slightly cross expression told her it was already too late to do some damage control.

The cat was out of the bag.

Well, if she could not hide her aunt’s unsavory interest in her former fiancé anymore, Mary still could try to conceal her misplaced possessiveness.

“Why, Richard, do you really think she invited you only for political purposes tonight?”

 “I had a strange feeling, but I thought it was some kind of strange deal between your aunt and Lloyd George. Buying the Welshman’s good graces can be very profitable for your family and Downton, after all.”

“If my aunt’s reaction to your rather shameless entertaining of Lady Virginia is any indication, this audacious strategy isn’t the sole explanation of your presence here, Richard.”

“You’re frightening me, Mary.”

The man was only half joking and, at the present moment, the perspective to deal with yet another Crawley woman really seemed to make him ill at ease.

“If it’s of any comfort to you, I’ve told Aunt Rosamund you had a definite type to discourage her,” Mary added, strangely anxious to appease his fears.

“Am I that obvious?” came the almost sheepish reply.

_The woman in Cliveden._

_Mary herself._

_Eliza._

_Lady Virginia._

Mary gave him a pointed stare, furrowing her eyebrow in a mocking manner.

“And after tonight, I’d say she thinks you’re no better than Lord Hepworth.”

“That’s a bit of an over exaggeration, I don’t fish in the ladies’ maids’ pond.”

 “Only their brunette mistresses, of course,” she humored him. Once again they were back to a dangerously personal territory.

“Let’s put it that way,” Richard concluded as he discarded his finished cigar, a mischievous grin revealing his dimples.

“Why only brunettes?” Mary blurted out, unable to stop herself. Once more, she did not have the excuse of alcohol to hide behind.

“Because brunette is pretty?” he answered with the typical nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, a sure sign of a relaxed and comfortable Richard.

A rather unladylike snort ruined Mary’s careful composure. Richard must have enjoyed more than a few cups of champagne in Lady Virginia’s company, as the return of the boyish candor that she had liked so much in Glasgow seemed to indicate.

“Well, tonight’s attendance must be to your taste.” Mary cringed inwardly at her poor choice of words, and hoped Richard would miss the unintended double meaning.

“Too many married women…”

He did not just say what she thought she heard.

“Maybe there are other Lady Virginias, with no shameful condition.”

Worse and worse, it was as if her wits had taken their leave for the last few seconds.

“Maybe, but I don’t have enough time to investigate. That’s a pity, though…” The mischief of his smile had reached his eyes.

A forced burst of laughter preceded the fugitive appearance on the terrace of a gracious young woman who could easily pass as a ballerina.

Richard felt her unspoken question. “Did you hear the way she laughs? More brain wouldn’t hurt.”

“I remember seeing Lord Marlborough’s niece from Russia. They say she’s exceptionally bright.”

“How old is she? Seventeen? I’m no cradle robber, thank you very much…”

“How considerate of you.”

“How selfish of me, in fact. I only look for a little more experience,” Richard replied, his eyes trained on her with a sudden serious expression.

Mary chose not to believe there could be a veiled allusion to the fact that her scandal always had been a non-issue for him, on a personal level at least.

“I suppose you noticed Lady Henrietta’s exuberance as well,” Mary went on with her train of thought, trying to escape from the personal territory they seemed to come back to with every sentence.

It was unsettling.

Even more unsettling was the realization that playing matchmaker for Richard did not bother her at all. In a sense, it was as it should be: she was married, they were back to being friends, it was all innocent banter. However, this was not the reason why she was not bothered.

As they talked about the hypothetical future woman in Richard’s life, comfortably leaning side by side on the railing of the terrace, Mary discovered the unique place she had occupied in his life. Of course, Eliza and others had shared his bed, which Mary had not. On the other hand, he had given her the power of hurting him, he had been vulnerable with her, and he had let her affect him and his moods. If Richard’s aloofness and resilience when he had spoken of Eliza’s infidelities in Glasgow or about Lady Virginia’s condition tonight were any indication, Mary realized now how he had let her see a side of him he usually hid to anyone else, and she took a rather perverse comfort in this idea.

“How about Lady Ingrid? You must have noticed her by the fireplace…”

“Sorry, Mary, but I’ve learned the hard way to steer clear from women that a beautiful uniform and a few glittering decorations impress too much.” Richard was serious again, and they were back to personal, once again.

Mary wanted to answer back, to find a snappy comeback. She just could not let him get away with such an unveiled barb.

“Come on, don’t tell me you would have stared at Matthew with the same admiring eyes if he had come back as a blasé corporal or sergeant, in his plain and unfitting uniform. Don’t tell me your whole family would have thought him a hero if he had come back bitter about the absurdity of the aristocratic command that let competent men, former lawyers, teachers, accountants, technicians, experienced soldiers go no further than the rank of a non-commissioned officer whereas kids joined the army and became lieutenants just because they were upper-class and happened to be the leaders of their cricket or rugby team at Eton.” There was no aggression in his voice, which could be expected considering the ferocity of his diatribe. No, there was only puzzlement and sadness.

Mary bit her lip in defeat. Richard had a point: her husband was not the hero everybody had wanted him to be. But there was no way she could recognize that fact in front of her former fiancé, not when she knew how much Matthew was struggling with the creeping and disturbing realization that he was no hero afterall, honorable or tragic, that he wasn’t her knight in shining armor.

Mary glimpsed the familiar lean and elegant silhouette of a fellow debutante in the frame of the French window. Here came the occasion to put their conversation back on track, and avoid the difficult truth.

“There’s Lady Jane Errol who lost her husband in Gallipoli and doesn’t seem to search for a new one actively. However, I know for a fact she doesn’t discourage men’s attentions either.” Now, this was an honest attempt at matchmaking.

The widowed Lady Jane had been married to the late Major Errol as a result of a familial and territorial strategy in Wales, and had shocked the establishment when she had barely respected the rules of a proper mourning before leaving Cardiff’s area and begin a new, free life in London. She was a good woman who, like Mary, had participated to the season big circus while her fate had already been sealed by her parents long ago. Their shared experience had driven both young women quite close since their first season. Jane could be a good match.

Moreover, anybody but Aunt Rosamund was Mary’s new motto.

And she wanted Richard to be happy.

Was it the silhouette by the door that caught his attention? Or was it the quick overview of Lady Jane’s personality that had made him curious? Whatever the motive was, Richard had abandoned his posture by the railing and had turned completely around, so that he could observe said Lady Jane better.

Richard was definitely interested, as evidenced by the small, amused smile forming on his lips and the twinkling in his eyes.

Mary stood by his side, unable not to feel a little abandoned, not knowing how to excuse herself with no added awkwardness.

“You must be freezing in your shawl. We should walk back to the party,” Richard said after a short, contemplative silence, with only a hint of eagerness in his voice.

This was only a polite and delicate way to say: “You should go back to your husband, and I shall pursue the most fascinating Lady Jane.”

This was also a diplomatic way of stating: “We’re better than you and Matthew were.”

There would be no tears nor broken hearts, no hypocritical oblivion nor collateral damage. Living was looking forward, not backward. If Mary had accepted this idea years ago, her life would have been much different. Certainly, she would be married to Richard now, and would share his busy life between London and Glasgow with a few stops in Haxby. But she had not, and there was no turning back.

However, their surreal conversation, and Aunt Rosamund’s earlier snide comments, had raised a nagging interrogation Mary could not keep to herself anymore.

“Richard, before we go, I need to know something.”

Why was it so important? The past was the past, and she had chosen another path for her life.

“Hmmh?” His attention was already focused on the woman he was intent on getting into his bed in the near future, the woman Mary had literally chosen for him.

“If we had not put an end to the engagement, if we had finally married… Would I have had to endure your _infidelities_? I suppose some habits are difficult to get rid of.” She hated she sounded so dramatic, but Mary could not find another word to describe Richard’s blatant, unrepentant womanizing ways.

As awkward as the question was, it drew his attention back to her nonetheless, and she wished it had not.

The same hurt and sadness that had marked his face the morning of their goodbyes two years ago now filled his eyes which were shining with confident mischief mere seconds ago.

“Do you really need to ask, Mary?”


	7. Yorkshire nights (part one)

1  
  
Instinctively, Richard felt the gap left by the missing part of a tooth with his tongue, and immediately repented of his bad habit when he almost cut himself once more. Grinding his teeth had never achieved anything and this latest incident that guaranteed new painful sessions at the dentist's was another evidence. Trying to distract his raging mind from the broken tooth and, above all, from the most unnerving reason of his presence in York this afternoon, he checked the time once again and decided to walk outside the courtroom and smoke another cigarette - the fourth one in the last hour and a half.  
  
This way, he could even miss the Crawleys' entrance in the courtroom, which would be an added bonus in a nightmarish week.  
  
What the hell were they thinking? Richard's angry incredulity had not diminished a bit since the day he had received the defense's convocation to come and testify for Bates' appeal. What the hell was that about? He did not know anything, he had barely met his harpy of a wife before legally putting her in a corner and, most of all, he could not care less about the delusional and vengeful woman.  
  
That was Bates' problem. That was the Crawleys' problem.  
  
Not Richard's anymore.  
  
Once the clerk had delivered him the injunction – in front of a good part of his staff, no less – Richard's first impulse had been to take the Pamuk file out of the locked drawer of his mahogany desk. He had spent the afternoon ignoring the world outside his office and devising what the most hurtful and reputation ruining angle could be. The sex scandal was an old outdated story – and he still could not resolve himself to completely ruin his former fiancée – but it was possible to put a very interesting spin on the association of an aristocratic family with the Ottoman Empire before the war. After all, the renewed tensions in the region with Kemal's offensive against the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles provided the perfect context to remind the Crawleys who they were dealing with once and for all.  
  
If they believed he had built his fortune only on superficial gossip, they were sorely mistaken.  
  
A week later, the sheer feeling of humiliation and blind anger was still there, and pacing on the pavement before York courthouse was the only thing he could do to keep his nerves in check. The heavy rain that had started in the middle of the night had finally stopped and sunlight filtered through the dark, scattering clouds, creating a surreal atmosphere he barely noticed as he lit his cigarette and exhaled the first puff of smoke. The reflection of the sun in the puddles on the road was so blinding that Richard had to use the brim of his hat as a protection as he strolled across the street to the park nearby. Here, the light, bright green of the linden trees new leaves created a stark contrast against the steel-like quality of the remaining clouds. The droplets of rain on the drenched thus useless benches shined like as many little pearls.  
  
Richard pushed back his hat a little and tilted his head backwards, enjoying the feeling of the sunlight and the still fresh wind on his face, trying to relax before going back to the arena. Back there, he would need all his patience and his self-control not to explode, not to do something drastic like he had almost done last week. Fortunately, before reaching the no turning back point, he had remembered the rumors about Mary's difficult miscarriage that had circulated around London a few weeks before, and he had put the file back in the safe confines of the locked drawer.  
  
Then he had walked home, paying no attention to the heavy spring rain.  
  
And he had drunk himself into a stupor with a twenty-year bottle of single malt.  
  
The following day, Richard had walked back to his office, swearing against the morning sun that turned his bad headache into a blinding one, and he had done what he did best when confronted to an unpleasant situation.  
  
He had clenched his teeth, figuratively and literally.  
  
The broken tooth that had bothered him for the last two days and the overall permanent and painful clenching of his jaws were the consequences of a week of barely contained anger and general foul mood. Since the delivery of the injunction, he had made two secretaries cry because they weren't fast enough and one of his editors' ears were probably still ringing after latest Richard's explosive visit to the poor man's office.  
  
This was the nightmare of 1919 all over again, and he was tired of being the Crawleys' scapegoat for whatever problems they needed to blame someone, of letting them affect him in such a horrendous way.  
  
These people had a particular talent for feeding gleefully the worst parts of his personality.  
  
-/-  
  
"You shouldn't be there, darling."  
  
In spite of the use of an endearment, Matthew's voice possessed the same familiar, slightly patronizing and unnerving tone he used to reserve for his mother when she acted unreasonable.  
  
For the first year and a half of their marriage, he never had used this tone with Mary, even in the middle of their biggest quarrels. On the opposite, they had been fighting a lot less since the miscarriage but this kind of voice had been a more and more frequent occurrence.  
  
"I promised Anna I would be there, and for the hundredth time, I feel fine, Matthew," she snapped back. She was tired of his clipped condescension and over-protectiveness. At times, it seemed as if he treated her like an innocent and fragile child who did not know what was good or bad for her.  
  
At times, Mary could not help but feel defeated. The pregnancy had pushed them together, helped them to build new foundations as a couple. The miscarriage had pulled them away further than they ever had been.  
  
Matthew grieved the way he always used to, in a spectacular way. He had spent days looking for a reason, for anything to blame. Two weeks later, he had decided that they had failed as parents because of their obsession with saving the family finances. Mary had invested herself too much in the effort, and Matthew had let her, blinded by his responsibility as heir.  
  
It was Lavinia all over again, except that the culprit was not a simple kiss anymore, but Downton as a whole.  
  
Predictably, Matthew had found a project in which he could bury his grief and guilt. Since Mary had been already saved from her fiancé, Matthew dedicated himself to Bates' appeal, working long hours to take and pass the exam that would allow him to act as a barrister, multiplying trips to London in search of clues… The week before, he had come back to Downton almost triumphant, confiding he had good hopes for Bates.  
  
Meanwhile, Mary had tried to resume her life as it was before the pregnancy as soon as possible, unable to shed a single tear, scandalizing the whole family by her apparent coldness. Her parents had called her on her lack of support for her husband's grief. Sybil had criticized her shallowness the night Mary had walked down for dinner clad in a dress she had just received from a creator in London. Edith had followed her husband's advice and had chosen to make herself scarce, afraid to display her own pregnancy. Only Granny had refrained from uttering any comment until now, and teatime visits to the Dowager had become their daily routine. They chatted about everything and nothing, and in these moments, Mary felt almost at peace.  
  
As they had two years ago, the family and some servants sat side by side on uncomfortable benches in a crowded courtroom: Bates' appeal was not the only trial occurring this day. In the audience, there were families afraid for their loved ones, just like the Crawleys. In the uncertainty of the courtroom, there were not that many differences between the upper-class and the lower-classes. The clothes her family wore were smarter, but the latent fear and anguish was just the same. They were also people with closed faces and vengeful expressions, who wanted justice to be done.  
  
The stifling, harrowing room reeked of fear, revenge and perverse curiosity.  
  
The crowd of the journalists with their notepads gathered on the last benches of the room, ready to write down the most horrid aspects of human nature and feed them to their reader in the next morning edition. Mary noticed they were not that numerous during the first trial, courtesy of Richard Carlisle most probably. Today, nobody was here to keep the dogs at bay, and Mary prayed that her husband really knew what he was doing.  
  
Matthew was conversing with Murray, the family lawyer who had defended the first time, trying to hide his uneasiness – some could call it stage fright – behind the projected self-assurance of the officer he once had been.  
  
Then, an unexpected silhouette attracted Mary's attention.  
  
Richard.  
  
The clenching of his jaw, his angry stare, his paleness, everything indicated that he was not here as a mere observer. Before sitting down in the area where the witnesses were supposed to gather, she saw him look around the room, visibly searching for someone.  
  
When he noticed Matthew at the bar, the anger of his expression became blatant furor.  
  
When he turned around and noticed her at Anna's side, his surprised stare became softer, sheepish almost.  
  
Suddenly, Mary felt sick. This could not be. This was not the clue Matthew thought he had found in London. Richard was many things, but a killer was not one of them, because he was not a stupid man. Richard was no killer, she was sure of that, but she was also certain that he would not accept gladly to be chosen as an expiatory scapegoat, far from it…  
  
Before she could even stand up to look for her husband, to try and talk to him, the officers announced the court's entry and the trial began.  
  
Bates' appeal was the first case examined this day. When Anna's husband entered the room in chains, between two policemen, Mary instinctively reached for her friend's trembling hand. The prosecution repeated the same litany as two years before, insisting on the accused's well-known violence, Vera's letter, the presence of poison in the house… Nothing of this was new, but Anna had to sit and suffer through exactly the same depiction of her husband as a calculating monster.  
  
Mary turned around to consider the woman at her side, her reddened eyes with unshed tears, her pale complexion, and her trembling bottom lips. This was a woman in hell. By comparison, Mary could not help but feel lucky, as strange as it may seem: she had lost a child but she still had her husband – in theory at least, because Matthew had refused to touch her since the miscarriage, arguing they were not ready for this – and could hope for better days.  
  
Then came the defense's turn and Matthew stood up, quite smart in his brand new barrister robe. He began with a convincing and moving speech about John Bates, the most loyal man. He spoke about the former valet's loyalty to the Earl and his family; he told stories only Bates and Matthew shared from the days when her husband had been stuck in his wheelchair. He attacked the prosecution's lame and fragile logic and concluded the defense would prove John Bates' innocence today.  
  
Matthew was actually good at that. His experience as an officer was serving him well here, in the courtroom. His voice was firm but not pontificating, he knew when to appeal to the jury's brains, when to appeal to their emotions.  
  
The defense called for the first witnesses, and, for a second, Mary almost thought she had been wrong about the reason behind Richard's presence here. However, a former neighbor finally evoked a tall, blond man in fancy clothes who used to visit Vera quite a lot before her death, and Mary knew exactly where her husband wanted to go.  
  
To a disaster.  
  
When she heard Sir Richard Carlisle called as a witness, she kept her eyes downcast, unable to look at her family, not because she was ashamed, but because she was afraid to meet a pair of eyes convinced her former fiancé could have done it.  
  
She was not even able to look at Anna, who was still clasping her hand.  
  
In the distance, she heard Richard decline his identity and occupation, swear to tell the truth on the Bible, and sit down on the witness creaking chair.  
  
His voice was firm, with just a hint of coldness.  
  
Matthew asked him about his association with Vera Bates; Richard told the jury about Vera's intention to hurt her husband by ruining the reputation of the family he worked for. Mary's name was uttered but Pamuk's was not.  
  
Then Matthew wondered about the publisher's motives, to which Richard answered quite candidly, as if it was evidence: "Because my fiancée asked me to."  
  
Mary let a small, fugitive smile form on her lips. Indeed, even if they had not announced it at the time, Mary had accepted his proposal in a letter three weeks before her trip to London, but had asked him to keep quiet for a while, to wait for the proper moment to announce their arrangement as she had put it. At first, he had agreed. After her visit to his office, he had unilaterally changed the rules she had established on her own.  
  
"So, you learnt about some scandal that could ruin this family?" Matthew pressed on, anxious to make his point, unsettled by his opponent's apparent calmness. "Didn't it give you some leverage?"  
  
"I'm afraid some considered it was the case, indeed," Richard simply commented.  
  
Mary looked up sharply, stunned. Richard had blackmailed her, hadn't he? It had been the base of their sour relationship. He had clearly threatened her, hadn't he?  
  
"And you put a lid on this scandal, didn't you? Matthew went on.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Easy. She was a gullible woman. I bought the exclusivity; made her sign a contract with small letters at the bottom and it was done. If she had had the stupid idea of turning to a concurrent of mine, I was legally authorized to sue her to her last penny, bankrupt her and have her sent to Australia for defaulting on the fine that expected her." The coldness in Richard's tone and his pointed stare at Matthew indicated that he could apply this kind of ruthless treatment to other people than Vera Bates.  
  
"So, you're saying she wasn't a threat to you anymore?"  
  
"No."  
  
Matthew's clear voice was now more subdued. Clearly, he did not know how to crack open the block of hostility that was Richard.  
  
"What can you tell me about your sudden trip to London on November 9th 1918, Sir Richard?"  
  
Mary almost shrieked in panic. This was a direct attack and there was no turning back anymore.  
  
"Well, as you well know, barrister, I went back to go and help your fiancée Miss Lavinia Swire, who wanted badly to go back to Downton, but did not dare to disturb you in the condition you were in at the time." The reply was as unforgiving as the attack. In one sentence, Richard had discredited Bates' defense by underlining Matthew's involvement in the whole story.  
  
At Mary's side, Anna gasped, tears now forming in her eyes.  
  
"You were late." Matthew was now clearly accusing.  
  
"Because I had an errand to do, and the jeweler from whom I had bought an engagement ring for my fiancée, was an excellent craftsman but not very keen on punctuality. If you want, you can ask your wife to show you the ring, and I can produce the bill right now if an officer wants to retrieve it."  
  
Mary heard a collective gasp as the audience realized how both men were former rivals. Richard had tried to keep her out of the debacle, and had managed Pamuk's name out of it, but in his anger, he had dragged her in the very center of the attention.  
  
Tomorrow's papers in Yorkshire would be a feast, that was certain.  
  
That was an utter disaster, and Bates' chance at freedom had been just wasted.  
  
The room was now very agitated, and the judge had to threaten the audience with fines to obtain silence once again. Richard produced his piece of paper, then the court let him go back to his seat.  
  
When the defense was asked if they had more witness to present, Murray spoke instead of Matthew, pitifully admitting Sir Richard Carlisle was their last witness.  
  
The deliberation was short, and after a few minutes, the court walked back into the room and declared the new evidence presented by the defense were not enough to prove John Bates' innocence.  
  
As a consequence, the life sentence was maintained.  
  
Mary felt Anna nearly collapsing by her side, and had to literally drag her through the crowd and out of the room with the help of Carson, the rest of the family sheepishly following close behind. In her peripheral vision she could see Richard rush to the journalists, exchange a few angry words and walk out as well.  
  
Matthew had already disappeared.  
  
-/-  
  
"Carlisle! You had no right to drag Mary into this!"  
  
Richard had almost reached the threshold of the building when Crawley's indignant voice stopped him in his tracks. The rest of the family stood behind, surrounding a shocked Anna – the appeal had been a failure, and she was the one suffering from it. In spite of the Earl's objection, Matthew had proceeded to follow his once rival.  
  
Damn the man.  
  
"To be accurate, you're the one who dragged our past relationship to the forefront when you started blurting stupid hypothesis about my supposed motives." The publisher did not bother to turn around, hoping that the other man would catch the hint. Richard was in no mood at all for a little chat with the heir.  
  
"Don't act innocent with me, Carlisle! Of course you had motive! You couldn't let Vera Bates spoil your dirty blackmail, you bastard." Matthew was trembling with rage, visibly unable to accept his latest failure. "And you were horribly late that night. Anybody with a logical mind would have thought of you!"  
  
"Anybody with a grudge, Crawley," Richard corrected, his patience wearing thinner by the second. "But you're right, neither of us should have drag Mary into this, not after what she just came through. However, if I owe anyone an apology, it's to your wife, not to you."  
  
"Don't act as if you cared for her, you never did," Crawley went on, anxious to reassert his place in Mary's life, as if the damn rings both wore were not enough.  
  
That was a well-known refrain: only Matthew could love Mary, and Mary could love only Matthew. Richard was tired of it.  
  
"Did I ever question your feelings for your wife? Never. So, I would appreciate it greatly if you didn't question mine," he shot back in cool voice, closing his eyes to focus and control his rising anger.  
  
"She was just a tool in your damn plans."  
  
That was it.  
  
Richard snapped.  
  
With no warning, he turned around, grabbed Matthew by the collar and aimed at the younger man's spleen, which had the effect of making Crawley double down in pain. Richard used this opportunity to finish the work with a crushing uppercut to the jaw.  
  
The cracking noise of both Matthew's jaw and Richard's fingers was unmistakable in the resounding silence of the courtroom hall.  
  
The publisher knelt down besides the man on the ground.  
  
"I owed you one, Crawley. Make my day and sue me, if that makes feel you better about your pitiful self," he warned in a low voice, trying to hide the pain on his own hand. "I'll sue you back for defamation the minute I receive the injunction. I'm loaded beyond your wildest dream and a prominent figure in London, and you're the heir of a crumbling estate in the deep end of England. Who do you think is going to suffer the most from our confrontation at court? Want to take a chance? Be my guest."  
  
Richard stood up, and refrained from cradling his hurting hand in front of the Crawleys who contemplated the fighting men with shocked stupor.  
  
It was Christmas 1919 all over again, but reversed. At long last, he had got his revenge, as petty a feeling as it was.  
  
If anything, Richard had won his pride back, and would regain even more as soon as he could make a few well-chosen phone calls in London. He could not let the Crawleys claim the glory of freeing Bates after today's ridiculous comedy, especially when the solution had appeared suddenly as clear as crystal water. He would never admit it to Matthew, but sitting in the witness chair had given him an excellent view of the assistance, and the unexpected presence of one of Bonar Law's minions did not go unnoticed. The man had been clearly exulting as long as Crawley had grilled Richard at the bar – which could be explained by the publisher's enmity for one of the Conservative leaders. But as soon as Richard had begun to shoot the defense theories' down, the man had turned grey, almost greenish, and had left the room before the judge's decision. Richard had noticed then the man was tall, blond and wore a fancy coat…  
  
Then, he turned around to face his former fiancée, deliberately ignoring the other members of the family.  
  
"Mary, please allow me say how sorry I am for your loss." He hated how corny he probably sounded. This kind of sentiment had never been is forte. "I hope you'll make a full and quick recovery," he added sincerely, hoping his eyes truthfully conveyed the empathy his words expressed awkwardly.  
  
He extended his hand, as if he had not just broken it while shattering her husband's jaw, and she took it, mindful not to clench it too much in her slender, but unhurt one.  
  
"Thank you, Richard."  
  
The ghost of a sad smile passed on her pale face. Had they had been alone, he would have engulfed her in a tight embrace, anything to comfort her. Fortunately, the rest of the family was there, tending to Matthew, examining Richard with defiant stares, and the impulse to take her in his arms disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared.  
  
"Lady Grantham, I'm afraid I didn't keep my previous promise but I do hope for everybody concerned here that this is really the last time we ever cross paths." The Dowager was standing so close to her granddaughter, almost supporting her, that it was impossible to totally ignore her, so Richard chose head-on confrontation.  
  
"Indeed, Sir Richard, it would be better if we never meet again." Surprisingly, her tone was conciliatory, and lacked the latent disdain she always used when she spoke to him. "And, on behalf of everybody, I hope you'll accept our most sincere apologies about what transpired today. We tend to get passionate about our people, to the point of blindness sometimes." The Dowager's voice was trembling with contained rage, but Richard was not the recipient of it, for once.  
  
A wave of grudging admiration for the elder woman took him by surprise. Lady Grantham hated him, that was a fact, but unlike many others, she was able to swallow her pride to do some damage control to protect what still could be protected of Downton.  
  
Richard smiled ruefully. Mary was really the Dowager's granddaughter, no doubt about that, for better and for worse.  
  
Lady Grantham surprised him even more when she took a handkerchief from her bag and extended her own hand, obliging him to acknowledge her unspoken deal.  
  
I can assure you that there will be no more talk about the late Mrs Bates and that nobody will press charges against you so you do not have to ruin Downton as revenge.  
  
Speechless, he watched the wrinkled and apparently frail woman as she wrapped his hand in her handkerchief with practiced, almost gentle gestures. When she was finished with his hand, she patted him mockingly on the forearm before throwing her usual biting insults as a conclusion of the exchange: "You should see a doctor quickly, Sir Richard. You're reaching an age when arthritis can evolve quite brusquely."  
  
Always trust Violet Crawley to hit where it hurt.  
  
One last look at Mary to convey his silent support, and Richard was gone. If he was lucky, he could even catch the six o'clock train to London.


	8. Yorkshire nights (part two)

**_ 2 _ **

“Yes, thank you for your help Judge Kirkpatrick. We have a deal. Once the man’s freed, I’ll start the campaign. I can guarantee the district will be yours for next elections.”

Richard ended the conversation and put back the receiver on its support, wincing as the movement caused the pain in his right hand to flare up once again, and reached for a cigar. In the end, this had been a good day: Bates would be free before the end of the week, and the price had been cheap. Helping Kirkpatrick with his sudden political ambitions was not too much to have the satisfaction of succeeding where the Crawleys had failed dramatically.

“So, Richie, tell me if I got something wrong here.”

His father was sitting across the desk and he had waited patiently for the call to end before speaking his mind. His voice was clipped with barely concealed anger. Richard let a shy smile form on his lips as he turned around to face the man’s fatherly indignation. The fact that Richard would turn fifty in a couple of years or that Abby was the mother of four living children and a fallen soldier, soon to be a grandmother too, did not stop his old man from getting overprotective whenever he felt one of his _kids_ was hurt.

“You were convoked at court to give a statement about a case you knew nothing about by your ex-fiancée’s husband. The man slandered you in front of a crowded room and the press…”

Richard knew what was coming and tried to put a stop to a tirade he had heard far too often in the last years. His father lifted a hand in a gesture that had always managed to silence the newspaper man since he had been old enough to argue with his father.

“Granted, given the state of your hand, this time, the bloke didn’t get away with it, fortunately; but should you really be helping _them_ instead of, let’s say, moving on with your life once and for all?” His father’s old hostility toward the Crawleys perspired in his every word.

“Well, Dad, I don’t know if rubbing someone’s nose in their incompetence is really helpful…”

“Aah, so that’s what you’re doing here.” The narrowed blue eyes showed that the patriarch was not impressed at all with this explanation. To be honest, Richard was not very convinced either, but there was no way he would concede this point. “I know better ways to put the Crawleys back in their place.”

Of course Richard’s father knew better ways. The man had been nagging his son about his not publishing the Turkish scandal for nearly two years.

“Dad, we already talked about that,” Richard replied, a bit more testily than intended. The day had been long and his patience was wearing thin. Rehashing this long argument was not something he wished to do right now. He took one cigar and offered another to his father, hoping that a few minutes of indulging in one of their numerous common guilty  - or not so guilty - pleasures would distract his old man’s attention from the topic at hand. Evasive maneuvers always were the solution when you wanted to escape Mark Carlisle’s wrath, whereas direct confrontation was just suicidal. The countless days spent at his father’s office during the holidays or delivering papers in the early hours of Sunday mornings in Richard’s youth had taught him this valuable lesson.

When his father took the offered cigar, Richard thought he had bought himself a few minutes of tranquility. However, when he winced as he tried to scratch the match and failed to light his own cigar, the other man’s attention was fully back on him.

 _Damn_.

“Be honest, son. Why are you doing this?”

The stare was unflinching but the voice was low and compassionate, with only a hint of worry. If there was a person able to break Richard’s stubbornness, it was his father. The patriarch rose from his seat to light his son’s cigar, joining the gesture with a fugitive pat on the shoulder.

“I just can’t imagine myself acting in any other way, in spite of everything.”

“Maybe you should change your plans and travel to New York as soon as possible,” came the practical suggestion.

“Escape once more?”

“As many times as you need to heal, son. Don’t follow in my footsteps. Don’t hide behind your work or Abby’s kids. Move on, Richie.”

This confession was totally unexpected. Deeply surprised, and moved, the newspaperman considered his father as the man sat back in his chair. For the first time in decades, Richard was surprised to hear him express the hint of regret. He had been barely seventeen when his mother had passed away, and since then, his old man had been his and Abby’s father and mother at the same time, working hard to pay for the school fees, making everything possible to maintain a proper house for them to come back to whenever they wanted, helping Richard in every step of his crazy projects. Not once before today had he imagined that his father’s sacrifices had been a way of escape from the truth.

“You never said anything…”

“I am, now.”

“Do you have… any regrets?”

“One or two, yes,” the old man confessed with a nostalgic smile.

This was more than unexpected. A rather childish selfishness had always stopped him from imagining his father could ever think of having another woman in his life.

“Why?”

“Officially? Abby was too ill, you were recovering from your accident in the Cairngorms…” Of course, the eldest Carlisle referred to the incident that had forced Richard to spend a good part of the summer between his first and second year of university stuck in his room while his broken leg was mending. That was the time when Richard thought that recklessness in the mountain was a good quality. “In reality,” the old man went on. “I always found an excuse to hide, and you and your sister provided many.”

“Is this what I’m doing here?” As always, Richard’s father had managed to make his son examine his behavior and situation without him even noticing it.

“You’re the only one with the answer, son. And this cigar is to die for, by the way. Do you have some single malt to go with it?”

-/-

Dinner had been quiet, to say the least.

A trembling Anna and the rest of the family had come back from York without a word, and their somber faces when they had reached Downton at last had been enough to convey their feelings to the ones that had remained behind.

_A feeling of complete, utter failure._

In spite of the defeated delegation’s protests that dinner was the last thing on their minds, Mary’s mother had suggested an informal meal, insisting that forgetting to eat properly would not change anything. Dear Mama, she was always so practical, and for once, Mary was grateful for this American quality in her mother’s character she had been prone to criticize so much for many years.

_You’re the American in the family, you can’t understand._

How many times had she repeated these awful words? Maybe she should have listened to her mother’s practicality when she still could. If Mary had, maybe she would not be stuck in this limbo of hurt, confusion and regret. Maybe she would not be stuck with a husband who always needed a scapegoat for the pain he could not deal with.

The idiotic strategy Matthew had elaborated to defend Bates, and Richard’s consequent convocation had been the last straw. All dinner, she had barely managed to contain her anger. A public confrontation would not do any good to anyone, so she had kept quiet until her granny decided to skip the traditional after dinner reunion in the drawing room to go back the dower house and both her parents decided to retire for the night.

Her father looked especially dreadful. He had been so full of hope this morning, assured he would be able to clear his former comrade-in-arms’ name and bring him back home at last. There was a depth of loyalty between both men Mary had a hard time to understand fully. What kind of hell had they been through to create such a bond? At first, she had been rather intrigued by her father’s unusual display of favoritism when he had hired and kept Bates as a valet in spite of everybody’s reservations. Then, she had selfishly admired this loyalty when Bates took the fall in order to protect the family’s reputation. To be honest, Mary owed him and Anna her still clean reputation – she also owed it to Richard but this was a can of worms she was not willing to crack open yet – and today’s failure hurt deeply. Her family was morally indebted to the Bateses, and they had not been able to repay it.

Mary had remained in the drawing room, trying to enjoy the smoking cup of tisane Carson had brought her before helping her grandmother to the waiting car. Matthew had retreated to the sofa and found refuge in yesterday’s edition of the _Times_ , suddenly engrossed by stale news he had already read during his breakfast the day before. One circular glance around her revealed they were alone at last, for the first time since the incident with Richard.

The angry bruise on her husband’s jaw was getting darker and larger. Matthew had not spoken a word since their arrival at Downton. The wires that the doctor in York had fixed to maintain the jaw in place and help it heal were one reason. The sheer humiliation was another. Mary considered the man in front of her, desperately trying to summon sympathy, compassion for him. In a not so distant past, such a sight would have awakened an irresistible surge of protective feelings in her. She would have sought any opportunity to speak to him, console him, be “his stick” as he had confessed just before the marriage that would not be.

Right now, the childish frown, the unshed tears in his eyes, the paleness of his face, the brooding that had made her heart beat faster before only evoked irresistible anger in her.

“Why did you do that, Matthew?” she enquired suddenly, not able to keep quiet anymore. “I know we went through difficult times, but you had no right to jeopardize Anna’s happiness only to be able to feel good about yourself once more.” The spoken words sounded much harsher in the open than when she had thought them in the train. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning, for God’s sake?”

Matthew put the newspaper away without folding it back and began to pace around the room, his words muddled by the wires.

“Why? Because I didn’t need to! Because I was sure! It made sense, you hear me, it made sense!”

“To you, Matthew, only to you! You had hated Richard from the very beginning, even when you hadn’t any right to!” Long forgotten grievances came back in a flash. Once more, regrets filled her mind. If only Matthew had accepted Richard the way she had accepted Lavinia, if only he had encouraged her to move on as much as she had encouraged him, maybe they would not be there, facing each other as if they were enemies.

“He’s a despicable man you chose because you were lost, and let me remind you he made a puppet out of you,” Matthew exclaimed vehemently. “Have you forgotten how he got you with Pamuk’s story, have you?”

“And have you forgotten how only a bout of flu stopped you from marrying another woman because of _honor_? How you almost let this house crumble because of your bloody sense of _honor_?”

“Leave Lavinia out of this!” he commanded.

“The day you leave Richard out of this once and for all!” She was tired of the same argument. She was tired of being treated as if she was the only one who had made the wrong choices during the war.

“Then you should have married him. You’re perfectly suited after all.” Matthew’s answer was bitter and his face expressed a level of disgust she had never witnessed. Suddenly, he seemed to hate her, and she did not know why.

“What do you mean, Matthew?” She had a suspicion about what was coming but she had to ask nonetheless. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Matthew was not about to burn the remaining bridges between them.

“What I mean? You’re asking what I mean? Just consider the fact that you’re able to stand and parade and do as if nothing ever happened when drowning myself into work didn’t even help a little. Just consider the fact that you hadn’t shed a tear for weeks when I’m barely able to get up in the morning! Did you really want this child?”

The last bridge crumbled in flames.

“Is this what you think?” she asked. “Then I should go back to my former room for tonight. Don’t wait for me to go back home.”

This was Lavinia’s funeral all over again, with Matthew’s crushing her heart while unilaterally deciding whether she should be able happy or not. The only difference was that she would never forgive him for this. She stood up quietly and, taking her cup with her, she left the room without a single glance.

As Mary walked down the stairs to seek refuge in her old childhood shelter, she noticed she still was unable to cry. She had lost a child, she had just separated from her husband, and she felt nothing.

-/-

“You know your uncle would kill you to get one of these bottles?” Richard’s father made the amber liquid swirl in his glass. “Remind me, how did you manage to obtain a full crate of eighteen-years-old Dalmore for nothing?”

“Thanks to the bad habits of a respectable member of the Church of England who was well known in all the best brothels of London,” Richard commented with an amused smile.

The Crawleys had been appalled by his behavior towards the Swire, when, after all, it only had been an exchange of service – Reggie Swire had not been the saint Lavinia liked to imagine and his debts had come from his repeated involvement in his brother’s shady business. What would have they thought about the way he had obtained this crate of whisky? The bishop possessed one of the finest cellars Richard had ever seen and liked to display its content when he entertained selected guests. Luckily, Richard had been one of these guests, and when one of his journalists had come to him last year with more than juicy information, the newspaperman had decided that some bottles of Dalmore were worth not publishing a scandal assured to propel the sales through the roof. The journalist had protested vehemently until Richard had given two bottles as a reward. Strangely enough, the subject of the bishop visiting brothels on a regular basis never came up again.

“You should be ashamed,” his old man commented and lifted the glass to his nose to enjoy the aroma.

“Not really, a bishop should know better…”

“You’re right, stupidity must be punished or else it will submerge the world.”

For a second, Richard imagined his father during a dinner at Downton and his reactions to some of the nonsense he had heard so many times. The hypothetical confrontation between the Carlisle patriarch and the Dowager would have been spectacular.

“And an idiot doesn’t deserve such a good whisky,” the newspaperman finished his father’s thought.

“Indeed, son,” his old man replied as raised his glass in a silent toast.

-/-

Carson was busy upstairs supervising the long process of tidying the dining room and closing the shutters for a good pair of hours. That meant that Mary was safe in her refuge for almost as long. For the first time in two decades, she had sought shelter in the butler’s office. As a child, it had been her habit whenever she had wanted to sulk or escape from a nanny’s wrath. She would sit there for hours, forgotten by the rest of the house, silently playing or reading under the desk, until Carson would find her, attract her out of her hiding place with the promise of a toast with cherry marmalade and bring her back upstairs, never betraying their secret, telling he had found her in the cellar, in the kitchen, anywhere but in his office.

Mary was far too grown up to sit under the desk now, and no amount of cherry marmalade would make her go back home tonight, but she felt secure. There, she could think about her next move, find the words to explain to the butler she wished to go back to her old room tonight, elaborate her arguments for tomorrow’s breakfast.

Curious, she let her eyes wander around the room. It had not changed much since her childhood: Carson was not a man who embraced change happily. Knowing this about the butler, the sight of the telephone on the desk was almost comical. In spite of her distress, a smile formed on her lips as she remembered the dubious stare he had given to the phonograph Matthew had brought for his wedding to Lavinia. A few months ago, Anna had told her how the mere sight of Mrs. Hughes’s brand new toaster had almost caused a heart-attack to the poor man. However, the telephone was in another league of novelty entirely, and Mary could only imagine Carson’s panic when her father had it installed before the war.

Given the way he solemnly answered whenever she called from London or whatever place she was visiting, the butler had got used to it, obviously, but it must have been a painful process for him. That was why she liked him so much. Nobody understood her fears, hesitations and doubts about change like he did.

A sudden pang of regret took her by surprise.

If only Carson had not refused to follow her to Haxby, maybe she would have felt more secure about her future; maybe she would have been able to embrace more courageously the changes a wedding to Richard implied.

Mary closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, willing the regrets to go away. Now was not the time to linger on what ifs and maybes. But the more she observed the telephone in the darkness of the office, the stronger the irrational impulse became.

After all, she had loved the sound of his voice before everything went from bad to worse, before she started to believe that her family knew better as far as her future was concerned.

-/-

If father and son shared the same disgust for idiocy, their opinions about sports in general and rugby in particular were radically different. For the hundredth time in the past few years, Richard’s father mocked him for his investing in shameful Rugby League. The idea that players could accept a salary to play rugby was incomprehensible for a man of his generation, Richard observed not for the first time. As far as he remembered, he had always seen his father pay for his own equipment, train on his own, negotiate days off with his employers at the paper in order to keep on playing. Richard had done exactly the same, but his early success had helped him a lot to live his passions, rugby and mountain, when his father struggled to afford a day or two in the Cairngorms. For his father, sports were a passion, and one did not get paid for a passion. One last time, Richard tried to justify his position when the phone rang, interrupting the conversation abruptly.

He made a move to answer but he reached instinctively with his right hand, hitting the phone clumsily with it. His father had to answer as Richard cradled his hand, wincing in pain.

“This is Mark Carlisle speaking.”

From neutral and curious, Richard’s father expression became slightly annoyed, then clearly angry.

“I understand, but…” The old man’s voice was firm and dismissive, but some form of pity and sadness appeared on his face.

“Yes, he’s here. Just wait a moment, Lady Mary.”

The last two words made Richard look up abruptly, suddenly feeling irrationally worried. Why was she calling so late in the night? Did something happen to Bates or Anna? Worse, did something happen to _her_?

His father gave him the phone with a gesture of defeat, got up and walked out the room, not without giving Richard a pointed stare, silently reminding him of their earlier conversation.

-/-

“Mary? What’s going on?” The familiar voice resounded on the phone, bringing back long forgotten memories of late calls.

_What’s going on?_

What can one answer to that? Matthew and I just had our final quarrel? Maybe she would have told him everything if his father answering the phone had not broken the spell, and reminded her that she had been the one to expel Richard out of her life, that she had no right to drag him back in the constant drama that was her life.

“Nothing, actually. I mean I…”

“Did something happen?” he pressed on anxiously.

_Yes, something happened, and I can’t tell you._

“I just wanted to know if you were alright, you looked injured when you left the courthouse,” she managed to utter a whole sentence at last.

Mary heard a sigh at the other end of the line.

“I’m alright, just two broken fingers that will heal in no time. Is that all?”

“And I wanted to apologize for Matthew’s behavior earlier,” Mary went on sincerely. She still could not wrap her mind around the idea that her husband had tried to turn Richard into a scapegoat for their own tragedy.

“You don’t have to, really,” Richard assured her, even if the bitterness in his voice revealed the contrary. “And, in the end, it’s going to prove to be a good move since I was able to recognize one of Bonar Law’s minions in the public from the witness stand.”

That was more than unexpected. Was he mocking her? He would not be so cruel, even if today’s events gave him every right to be. But his voice was clearly reassuring…

“What do you mean, Richard?” she asked, anxious to know more. Would this nightmarish day finish on a happier note? She did not dare to hope.

“That you can tell Anna her husband will come back home very soon. His name might not be cleared because the real culprit is too high in the food chain, but he will be free.”

“How did you do it?”

“As usual, I called in a few favors. That’s what we do in London, you know,” he explained patiently.

“But… what happened?” Mary knew that was what Anna would ask come morning, and she needed more facts to explain everything.

“Long story short, Vera had been the lover of an officer for a few years, but her erratic behavior in the last months of her life combined to a series of promotions for said officer sealed her fate. I suppose that all her agitation about some unfounded rumors she possibly knew and all her talk about how she wanted to ruin the reputation of a respected family in the Conservative circles didn’t go unnoticed, and the man felt the need to clean after himself.”

“And he will get away with it,” Mary concluded the story bitterly.

“From his judges, yes… But not from the press, I can assure you. Sooner or later, I’ll get his head, trust me.”

His voice was cold, factual. Back in London, a man was ruined, and he did not know it yet. What a difference from Richard’s angry barks during their engagement! If only she had taken the time to know him, she would have recognized the difference.

“I can trust you on that, indeed,” she answered mirthlessly, glad she would be able to assure Anna that the man would pay in the end.

“But you didn’t call to talk about Bates, did you?” he went back to his questioning, slight worry transpiring in his voice.

For a second, she was tempted to hang up the phone, to flee from his questions. She could not admit the disaster that had become her marriage, she could not tell him she had refused a future with him to engulf herself in such an utter failure. But, at the same time, there were so many things she needed to say to anyone willing to listen.

After a moment, she spoke at last.

“I can’t cry.”

She had said it out loud at last.

“What?” The confusion in his tone was obvious.

“Since the miscarriage, I haven’t been able to shed a tear.”

A loud sigh and, a few seconds later, the sound of scratching match.

“Everybody’s blaming me for being heartless, starting with Matthew…”

A loud, frustrated exhale.

“Excuse me, but your husband is weak,” he replied harshly. “You saw how he grieved for Lavinia. You should not concern yourself with his opinion about how you should deal with what you’ve been through.”

Of course, Richard would not miss the opportunity to get back at his once rival. More surprising was the fact that she agreed with him fully and did not have to urge to defend her husband from her former fiancé’s bitterness.

“Honestly, I don’t know what to say, Mary,” he went on, his voice suddenly much softer. “I just know that one single glance at you is enough to see you’ve been through hell.”

Another pause.

“I just know that people choose many different ways to express their pain. When my mother passed away, my father drowned himself in his work, I became a little rascal and my sister cried all the time, but none of us ever questioned the others’ pain, never. We stuck together, endured one another’s misgivings, and went through it.”

“You never told me…” she interrupted, trying to process this newest piece of information. There was so much she ignored about the man.

“I’m afraid we never reached this level of intimacy, Mary.”

He sounded sad, regretful almost, and Mary was well aware of his implication that they had reached it now, in the most paradoxical way.

“Of course.”

Yet another pause. Richard was searching for the right words, obviously.

“What I mean is that… you’re the one who lay in a bloodied bed, endured the physical pain of losing your child, not them; nobody has the right to tell you how you must feel,  not your husband, not your parents, not me.”

Mary bit back a strangled sob. The harsh truth hurt like hell. It was one thing to think like this, it was another thing to hear this aloud. The spoken words made the fugitive thoughts painfully real. However, at the same time, it was so liberating to hear a voice claiming she had every right to grieve in her own way.

“Are you all right?” he asked, probably alarmed by her prolonged silence. “I didn’t want to…”

“It’s nothing, Richard, it’s nothing.” Her voice was trembling, her throat was tight.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” he enquired again softly.

Mary wanted to answer, to tell him not to hang up, but her throat was too constricted.

“All right then. Good night, Mary,” he whispered at last, after a few seconds of silence. “You know where to find me if you need me.”

The light click on the line indicated that Richard had ended the call. Still, Mary kept cradling the receiver to her ear, not willing to finish the conversation on her end of the line. There were so many things she needed to say, so many frustrations to express, so much grief to deal with.

_You’re the one who lay in a bloodied bed, endured the physical pain of losing your child, not them; nobody has the right to tell you how you must feel, not your husband, not your parents, not me._

Then, the tears that she had been unable to shed since the miscarriage welled up in her eyes at last. Mary began to cry silently, her bottom lips trembling, her hand holding the receiver shaking, her other own brushing the tears away. The liberation came as she finally let out ragged sobs.

“Thank you, Richard,” she whispered in a strangled voice, not caring that he was not       at the other end of the line anymore. “Thank you.”

With a shaky hand, she put the receiver back on the phone, wrapped her arms around her tightly, and cried for her stillborn son in the silent darkness of Carson’s office.


	9. Atlantic nights (part one)

**__ **

**_ 1 _ **

_“Our lot does not divorce, Mary. Step back as much as you need in order to make this marriage work. Travel out of England for some time.”_

The Dowager’s voice still rang in Mary’s ears as she managed to escape at last from Lady Harrington’s endless babble about how much safer transatlantic crossing had become since, quote, this horrible tragedy ten years ago, end of quote.

As soon as the _Syracuse_ had left port earlier this morning, leaving the cheering crowds of Liverpool further and further behind in the horizon, the over-enthusiastic living porcelain doll had decided that she and Mary would be friends for the duration of the cruise, claiming they were the only young women in First Class possessing the free use of their movements. Indeed, a quick glance around at her fellow passengers enjoying the sun and the salty air, parading in their brand new spring clothes obviously designed especially for this journey or lounging comfortably settled on one of the numerous chairs aligned on the deck revealed formal businessmen and matriarchs guiding their unmarried daughters to the dreamed marital life and strategic marriage they had been deprived of by the war in Europe. In the middle of this crowd, Lady Harrington – the exuberant widow of a war profiteer who had made his fortune and gained his title thanks to his involvement in the war effort – and Mary – a married woman travelling on her own – stood out dramatically, and the temporary alliance the widow offered had seemed a good idea to Mary.

In the beginning.

A few hours later, listening to a single anecdote more narrated in her high-pitched tone looked like an impossible prowess. Bearing with the young woman for a whole week was totally unimaginable, and Mary wondered if, before the end of the crossing, the Atlantic waters would engulf another drowning Crawley, with the exception she would be the only one jumping from the ship in order to escape from the oblivious torture that was Lady Harrington. Furthermore, even if the allusion to the _Titanic_ was totally innocent –  if the big, rounded, slightly tearful eyes were any indication – being directly reminded of the past heir who had been her fiancé, and indirectly of the current heir who was her husband was the last thing Mary needed at the moment.

_“Why leave England? My dear, do you think I didn’t see the way Sir Richard gazed at you in York? Do you believe I didn’t notice how guilty you looked when you came back from Glasgow last autumn? Considering the precarious state of your marriage, I advise you not to try and revisit old history. Nothing good will come out of it.”_

Actually, any reminder of the absurd chain of events that had ultimately lead Mary to the _Syracuse_ was unbearable. Outside the lavish dining room, the wind, now deprived of the warm influence of a sunny afternoon, had become plain chilly and the crowded deck was deserted.

Mary sighed as she adjusted her silk scarf around her shoulders and leaned on the rail. Below, the faint lights coming from the portholes of the cabins reflected on the dark water and made it possible to guess the regular and mesmerizing movements caused by the progression of the boat. After a fashion, the noises from the dining room and the music from the ball were totally forgotten, and the sounds of the waves and the machines became the only ones Mary paid attention to. If you did not count the short journeys to Ireland for Sybil’s wedding or to France for her honeymoon with Matthew, this was the first time that Mary had traveled so far, and the whole experience was fascinating.

Meeting new people.

Realizing that you would not see land again before a week.

Getting used to the permanent humming of the machines or the cracking of the metallic structure.

Feeling the thrill of discovering unknown places very soon grew more acute by the hour.

Maybe her Granny was right. Maybe this little adventure would help her to find some balance once more. Discovering that her secret regrets were not that much of a secret had been a harsh realization. So Mary had agreed, but not for the sake of her marriage – the memory of Matthew’s accusation was too fresh and would not fade that easily. If Mary had accepted the Dowager’s impromptu idea of a visit to her Grandmama in New York, it was because she could not drag Richard into her own endless drama once more. On that point, she agreed totally with her grandmother. Nothing good would come out of it, and hurting the newspaperman again was the last thing she wanted to do.

The Dowager was willing to send her granddaughter to the country she despised so much in order to preserve the family from the man’s wrath should the former romantic entanglement resurface.

Mary was willing to play the game in order to preserve the man from an inevitable heartbreak. She had made her choice; she had married Matthew, for better or for worse, and nothing would change that, not even the fact that it had been Richard’s words that had helped her to accept the fate of her baby, not her husband’s.

Mary had protested, but in the end, she had relented, not without calling her grandmother on her continuous interferences in the others’ lives, for the best, and sometimes for the worst. If the family in general and the Dowager in particular had not acted as if Lavinia and Richard were little more than inconvenient obstacles to her love story with Matthew, maybe Mary would not have felt the need to escape to America after only two years of a rather rocky marriage.

_“My dear Mary, our opposition did not stop Sybil from marrying the chauffeur. Do you really think I would have done what I did if you had not given us the impression that, at that time, marrying Matthew was your only way to happiness?”_

Mary had made her decision, and now she had to live with it.

“Until death do us part,” she whispered sadly to the dark waves.

-/-

Around his fifteenth birthday, Richard had managed to find and steal the key to the locked bookcase where his father used to hide the books he deemed unsuitable for his children’s young minds. The bookcase had been totally out of reach until his tenth birthday, and then a few volumes had found their way out of the piece of furniture to liven up a daily routine made of Daniel Dafoe, Walter Scott and translations of Alexandre Dumas. Little by little, Dr. Frankenstein’s tortuous adventures, Poe’s ghosts or Dickens’ prose substituted his old heroes in his former pantheon, soon to be rejoined by models from the other side of the Channel – his father had always been a convinced Francophile – and especially Voltaire’s biting irony. However, many books remained hidden so Richard had decided he was old enough to forgo his old man’s permission to choose his own readings.

Observing the man’s routines had been the easiest part. Determining the right moment had been quite easy as well. But slipping unnoticed into the forbidden study had been no small feat: his mother’s sense of hearing was unnatural, and his little sister possessed a special talent that consisted of finding him and alerting the whole house if not the neighborhood whenever he wanted to be discreet, walk in without showing his latest school results or slip out to go and play with his friends in spite of being grounded in his room. Fortunately, this day, he had been able to feel Abby’s presence behind him and buy her temporary cooperation with a handful of sweets he had purchased for that very purpose.

Finding the key had been quite difficult not because of his father’s talent at hiding something but because of the man’s frightening lack of order. No wonder his mother refused to set a foot in the room. He had lost so much time searching for the damn key he had almost run out of time and he had to settle for the first book with the seemingly most intriguing title before rushing up the stairs to his room.

From that day, Diderot’s _Letter on the blind_ had become his favorite book, his own personal Bible, revealing to the fifteen-year-old boy he was then the liberating hypothesis of the relativity of moral systems, making him revisit all the absolute truths he had been forced to accept without question at school or during catechism. Since then, he had built his own system of beliefs, which had helped him to reach the place in society he occupied now. In the end, he had become a rather adaptable man, able to travel all around the world and make friends in distant places with few difficulties.

Actually, his utter inability to understand the Crawleys’ own twisted system of values had been his most spectacular failure to adapt to an unknown situation. Too emotionally involved, he had let the situation gnaw at him little by little, fruitless visit after frustrating visit. From that point of view, Christmas 1919 had been a rather frightening case of dual personality as he heard himself sputter idiocy after idiocy about the servants, the traditional Boxing Day hunt without being able to stop himself. The events that had transpired two weeks ago in York had revealed that the Crawleys still possessed the ability to crawl under his skin like nobody else. As soon as he had hung up, terminating effectively his more and more personal conversation with Mary, Richard had decided that his father’s advice was a good one.

And here he was, crossing the Atlantic one more time, horribly blasé about the whole thing, barricaded in his cabin with Diderot, fleeing from his fellow businessmen’s boring company. A rapid glance at the passenger manifesto had shown him that nothing interesting would come out of prolonged discussions with the owner of the richest mines in Wales or the director of some uninteresting textile factory in Birmingham. One of his editors followed Lady Harrington’s extravagances closely, and routinely complained about horrible headaches after an evening spent in her orbit, an experience Richard did not want to imitate during this week-long journey. Only the discreet owner of a weapons factory in Glasgow who had suffered from the socialist movement back in 1919 was worth a little extra work.

But not on the first day at sea.

Richard had an entire week to get to know the man and earn his trust so that he could be persuaded to talk to his papers. Having determined his occupation for the next few days, the newspaperman had not bothered to read the manifesto in its entirety, paid the clerk for his troubles and retreated to his cabin.

Engrossed by his reading, and rather inelegantly sprawled on the comfortable sofa that adorned his study, Richard had forgotten diner time. However, the insistent grumbling in his stomach finally reminded him that one cannot feed on printed words – concretely in fact, because he was a living proof that it was more than possible metaphorically – and he decided that immediate survival – a meal – was more important than the hundredth reread of Diderot’s _Letter_. A glance at the clock on the mantel of the artificial fireplace showed him it was too late to join the guests in the dining room. At this hour, the nightly ball had already begun. He could always ask the crew to bring something to eat to his cabin, which he was more and more accustomed to. However, the warm weather of the afternoon had morphed into a nice, fresh evening, and it was impossible to tell how long such conditions would last. Clouds and heavy rain could make their appearance the very next day and follow the _Syracuse_ to its destination, forcing the passengers to stay indoors.

Richard reached for his shoes and socks he had methodically placed by the sofa – on that point, he was his mother’s son, not his father’s – before getting his cigarettes and his coat. Having a sandwich or two along with a bottle of wine on the deserted deck seemed a more and more attractive idea by the second.

-/-

The sounds of footsteps on the deck alerted Mary that she was not alone anymore. Not desiring to abandon her post by the railing anytime soon – the experience of salty wind on her face was a delightful one – but, at the same time, not wanting to be bothered by a stranger’s innocent curiosity, Mary stepped back into the darkness, under a flight of metal stairs nearby, waiting for the intruder to leave her ephemeral kingdom of shadows and rhythmic waves. Fortunately, the stranger seemed more interested by the bright activity in the ballroom – bursts of jazz music and laughter reached her ears whenever the door was opened and closed – and stepped in quickly to join the dancing crowds.

_Good for them._

Mary was in no mood for company, even a distant one. Furthermore, ever since her childhood, she had always enjoyed quietness in the most selfish way. She needed to create her own world to retreat into once a day or more, and growing up on an estate like Downton had not helped her to get used to crowded places and ever-present company. In that sense, getting used to Crawley house had been quite an effort for her, so much more than she had let Matthew and his mother notice.

It was also her deep attachment to her selfish need of quiet solitude that had made her waver in her engagement to Richard. How would he have been able to understand such a visceral need to disappear for a few hours in the afternoon with the only company of a book when his life was nothing but noisy activity and rushed conversations? Unfortunately, it was only a few months ago – a good three years too late – that Mary had discovered that he would have been able to understand much more than she had originally thought: a man who used to retreat in a glass-house to work or simply to daydream would have accepted her need for privacy and reverie.

The door to the ballroom opened and closed again, and Mary retreated further into her hiding place as if it were a long-learnt habit and not a routine she had only acquired for the last hour. However, instead of disappearing in the background of the humming machines and the crashing waves against the hull, the footsteps came closer and finally stopped, two meters from her.

It was too dark to recognize anyone but she could make out a male silhouette, in a coat with a turned up collar. Oblivious to her presence – Mary always had been good at hiding, which used to drive Edith and Sybil mad, especially Edith – the man bent to put down a bottle and a glass by his feet and straightened up to lean on the railway.

_Just my luck._

Another passenger seemed to share Mary’s taste for solitary contemplation, which displeased her greatly. She was in a dire need of another hiding place very soon if she wanted to survive Lady Harrington’s over-enthusiastic company until the end of the journey, and more urgently, she needed to slip out of her current refuge without being noticed by the stranger in front of her.

In the dark, Mary could not make out the man’s features, and did not wish to if it could be avoided. However, when one of his hands left the railing and reached for his pocket in a strangely familiar fashion, she stood glued to her spot, suddenly unable to move.

_Impossible._

The man turned so that his back protected his hands from the wind before striking a match and bringing the flame closer to his face to light his cigarette.

At the definitely familiar vision, Mary had to repress a nervous giggle, for one of the reasons why her granny had advised to travel out of England was standing in front of her. The irony of the situation was really hilarious, and, at the same time, Richard’s unexpected presence on the _Syracuse_ was most comforting, more than she would have cared to admit out loud.

“Good evening, Richard,” she greeted in spite of herself while stepping out of her hiding place, suddenly no longer minding the idea of sharing her refuge.

His surprised expression and widened eyes when he jumped back to face her was almost comical and Mary felt as if she had stepped into one of those films the downstairs staff enjoyed so much during their nights off. Gone was the burning cigarette, probably thrown into the waves in surprise, but the bottle remained intact.

“M… Mary?”

The incredulity in his voice was obvious. Her presence on this very boat was probably the last thing he expected. However, Sir Richard Carlisle was nothing if not a resourceful man, able to turn any situation to his advantage: Mary clearly remembered that the bargaining had followed his stunned silence after only a handful of seconds when she had traveled to London in order to obtain his help against Vera Bates’ scheming.

“Good evening, Mary. Isn’t it a surprise?” he answered, hiding the last remain of discomfort behind a cocky smile and his extended, still bandaged, right hand.

She shook the offered hand, glad to see he did not flinch at the contact, a sign he was probably healing properly. Back home, Matthew’s jaw was on the mend, most likely…

“I didn’t see you at dinner,” she went on to push the unwanted thoughts and concerns away.

“I was reading,” he offered as an explanation. “I just came above deck to get something to eat and drink.” As he talked, he gestured to the bottle at his feet and revealed the sandwich cradled in his left hand. “Care to join me? This vintage is a rarity, and once we arrive in New York, we will have to get used to infusions and sodas.”

At this allusion, Mary raised an interrogative eyebrow.

“Are you sure you have family in America?”

“I’m traveling to visit them,” she answered back with a pointed stare before clarifying sheepishly, “for the first time.”

“So they didn’t tell you about the Volstead Act, did they?” he commented as he poured a glass of wine for her, in a gesture quite reminiscent of their little adventure in Glasgow. The only difference was that she was not pregnant anymore, and that red wine replaced warm tea.

“I’m afraid that, if my Grandmama did, I didn’t catch her meaning,” she replied, accepting the offered glass. Of course, she could not remember much from her American grandmother’s visit because all Mary cared about at the time was her imminent marriage to Matthew, and the fate of Downton.

“Long story short, no alcohol for us until we leave New York behind, at least publicly,” Richard summarized with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s more or less the same story in New Zealand, actually.”

Mary brought the glass to her lips to taste the wine, savor its texture and strong aroma. Indeed, it was the kind of vintage that his father jealously kept in the depth of his cellar and that he asked Carson to present at dinner only for special occasions, like her engagement to Matthew.

“I guess we have to enjoy the _Syracuse_ ’s collection as long as we can, have we?”

“Suppose so…”

With a movement of his head, Richard invited her to join him by the railing, reclaiming his glass and offering her his coat which she accepted gladly. The chilly wind was not enjoyable anymore and her slightly shivering shoulders betrayed her growing discomfort.

Once she settled back by the railing, sheltered from the wind by Richard’s frame and his warm coat, comfortable silence settled between them. Routinely, he reached for the bottle and poured a glass of wine they shared while gazing at the movements of the waves. Mary only took a few sips from time to time while Richard enjoyed the vintage more thoroughly, probably in an attempt to hide his own discomfort at the unexpected encounter. On the contrary, Mary took delight in the situation, the warm pressure of his arm against hers, the smell of tobacco on his coat. Richard was a good companion for silent reverie, actually.

Finally, an hour or so later, even his coat did not stop her from shivering.

“You’re cold.”

There was no denying it, especially when she had a hard time to stop the clicking of her teeth.

“Can I walk you back to your cabin?” he asked almost shyly, in a way that reminded Mary of Lavinia’s funeral. Now and then, the expression on his face was a bit hesitant and attentive to her well-being at the same time, in the most discreet way. Richard was spectacular in his anger but shy in his attentions.

She nodded her acceptance, and as before, took the arm he offered casually, clinging to his warmth.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No,” he shook his head with an amused smile. “That’s a nice summer night in Inverness.”

Mary let out a snort. Of course, Richard had to mention Scotland before the end of their conversation.

Following her lead, they walked silently along narrow corridors before stopping in front of her door.

“Nice,” he commented mischievously. “We’re almost neighbors.”

“Do you want a tour?” she asked with an audacity she did not know she possessed.

Richard shook his head. “I’d like my coat back.”

They stepped into the cabin and Richard leaned against the door, waiting for her to give him his coat back, curiously scanning his surroundings. For the first time since their encounter by the railing, she could see him in bright light. The wind had freed his blond curls from the pomade. His face had been reddened by the cold, which made his blue eyes and days-growth of beard stand out even more. His whole posture against the door betrayed a rarely seen nonchalance that suited him better than the rigid attitude she had witnessed him display during his visits to Downton.

It was Glasgow all over again.

He was so appealing and, suddenly, she wanted him.

Now.

-/-

Without any more warning than her darkening stare, Richard felt Mary grab his already loosened collar and push him against the door of her cabin.

This was absolutely not what he had been thinking about when he had offered to walk her back to her cabin.

_Not at all._

The door-knob dug in the small of his back but Mary’s insistent kiss provided a heady distraction. A little inebriated by the bottle of red wine they had opened on the deck – Mary had only sipped two glasses, leaving the rest to him – Richard had a hard time resisting a chain of events he knew would end in disaster. The caress of her lips, the fragrance of her perfume only contributed to enhance his state of inebriation, and he could feel himself harden as Mary’s tongue brushed insistently against his already slightly parted lips to deepen the kiss.

This was Glasgow all over again, only ten times worse, with no family members within a thousand miles radius and the prospect of traveling in the same boat for ten more days or so.

_Bad idea._

For the first time since their first encounter in 1916, they were truly alone, with no interference from a disapproving grandmother, a critical father or an overprotective and jealous cousin who happened to be a former fiancé. Furthermore, Mary was the one taking the initiative, as she had done in Glasgow a few months back. Her fingers were on his tie now and relieved him from the garment before working on the first buttons of his shirt.

She wanted him. It was a dream come true, only it was a good three years too late.

_Very bad idea._

He protested feebly, but the sound was swallowed by another kiss that left him breathless, only wanting more. Worse, his hands began acting on their own, one instinctively reaching for Mary’s waist, playing with the button of her skirt, while the other settled on her breast.

_The worst idea in the decade._

How often he had dreamed of doing this in Downton or in Haxby, without ever being able to find the right moment or the right mood! He had wanted kisses and caresses, endless talks about their future, and the only thing he had ever gained from his regular visits to Yorkshire had been more anger and frustration. Instead of kissing the once adored lips, his mouth had proffered threats whereas his hand had grabbed the arms he desired to caress. Endless quarrells had replaced planning their life together. This was all in the past, deep buried and he did not need to revisit the whole debacle. Richard did not want to be blinded by anger once more.

His shirt was now completely open and Mary’s cold fingers slipped under his undershirt, grazing his belly with her nails ever so slightly, eliciting a moan from him. He had managed to resist back in Glasgow, and the urge to lean into her kiss had been as powerful as now. Why could he not resist this time?

_Bad, bad, bad idea._

His hands settled on her shoulders and pushed her away gently while he answered the disappointed stare with a tender smile before gathering her in his arms – she was as light as a feather, almost so light he could not help but worry a little – and carrying her in long few strides to the bed.

 _The hell with it_.

To be honest, back in Glasgow, he had not witnessed how unhappy Mary was with her marriage and she had not shared her deepest secret over the phone in the middle of the night yet.

In Glasgow, Mary had not invited herself back into his dreams yet.

In Glasgow, he had not accepted the idea that he wanted her in his life and in his arms on any term yet.

Richard put Mary back on her feet and stepped back to remove his clothes, his eyes never quitting hers, searching for the most fugitive sign of hesitation. Such a moment never came as she followed his lead and began to undress, a mischievous smile on her lips, a pair of brown eyes gazing right back at him. Yet, her newfound confidence seemed to falter as she removed her last garment and she self-consciously crossed her arms in a vain attempt to hide herself from his aroused scrutiny. Gently, he brushed away a wayward strand of hair that had escaped from her new boyish cut.

“Mary?”

Revealing herself in such a way to a man who was not her husband must have been quite overwhelming, and for a second, Richard feared she might run to the bathroom, blurting it was all a very bad idea, leaving him to gather his clothes, no coming out of her shelter before she would have heard the door of her cabin shutting close behind him.

“If you want…”

He never finished his half-formed thought because her arms flew to his neck while her lips claimed his own in another heady kiss, and he was more than happy to let her drag him to the bed and respond to her anxious, breathless command.

“Make love to me, Richard.”

_Indeed, he loved her, whether he wanted or not._

 


	10. Atlantic nights (part two)

2  
  
Two hours.  
  
Two hours since Richard Carlisle had become her lover.  
  
Was it because of all the heartache that had preceded Mary's impulse on her first night on the Syracuse? Was it because she knew that this thing – whatever it was – could not, should not last so she was intent to live every second of it fully? Was it because of the man who was not her husband currently trying to locate his cigarettes in the mess of clothes on the floor of her cabin? Whatever the reason was, Mary felt happier than she had been in a very long time. In fact, she was positively giddy, and could not stop a mischievous, satisfied grin from forming on her lips.  
  
It felt good.  
  
Only clad in a towel secured around his waist, Richard was rummaging through his coat pockets before searching in his trousers while she stretched lazily on the bed they had only left to share a warm bath an hour or so earlier. It had been his idea and, if she had felt jealous of his obvious experience with women before, she was grateful now for his attentions and ability to overcome the unavoidable awkwardness that had begun to creep between them as soon as they had managed to catch their breath, lying on the bed, covered in sweat.  
  
Taking a lover given the state of her marriage was not that uncommon in her world.  
  
Taking a lover before having given birth to a living heir was more uncommon.  
  
Taking your former fiancé – the man against whom you had sought protection in your current husband's affections – as your lover was very awkward, and some might say a recipe for disaster.  
  
However, as she observed Richard exclaiming in triumph when he finally found his cigarette case and his matches, she just could not imagine herself being elsewhere at the moment, especially when he joined her under the covers, his towel forgotten somewhere on the way.  
  
"Do you mind?" he leaned back against the pillows and asked with unexpected shyness that left Mary a bit puzzled. Considering their latest activities, his naked presence in her bed was not something she minded at all, even if she should.  
  
"Not at all…"  
  
Mary was about to tease him about his sudden excess of manners, planning to snuggle against his warm frame – no wonder he was never cold, the man seemed to have his own central heating system – when she realized he took his presence here for granted too, and was in fact about to make himself even more at home.  
  
"Wait, you don't intend to smoke here?" she exclaimed, slightly alarmed. The smell of tobacco on his clothes was one thing, the taste on his tongue yet another, but smoking around her bed was an idea she had a very hard time to wrap her mind around.  
  
"You just said you didn't mind," he replied plaintively, his unlit cigarette between his teeth, his box of matches in hand.  
  
"I didn't realize you meant here, in my stateroom. In my bed."  
  
Smoking was simply not an activity suitable for a bedroom. Outside, yes, in an office, of course, after dinner, naturally – Mary had to admit she used to enjoy the fainting smell of smoke on Matthew's hair before, and she definitely did not dislike it on Richard – but in the bedroom, it was totally unimaginable.  
  
"Can I corrupt you?" came his daring answer, the offending item still clenched between his teeth. Of course, Richard Carlisle would try to bargain his way out of this.  
  
With his wet hair brushed back, the shadow of a beard on his chin and the way he held his cigarette, Richard looked perfectly unsuitable. And even, in a way... adorable. The same sight which would have sent her running three years before awakened a new surge of desire in her lower belly now.  
  
"Don't you think you corrupted me enough tonight?" she replied as she crept closer, resting her hand on his thigh.  
  
"Says the woman who literally jumped on me…"  
  
His attention was back on her, entirely.  
  
"I did not."  
  
Her hand progressed further to caress his renewed arousal, eliciting a satisfied groan from him. Mary looked up mischievously to discover his head tilted back, his closed eye, his cigarette dangling between his lips, ready to fall down.  
  
Her diversion tactics were a complete success.  
  
Silently, she sat up to retrieve the still unlit object from his lips, discarded it on the floor and proceeded to replace it with her own tongue.  
  
Richard did not protest, at all.  
  
Emboldened by his reaction, she straddled him, grinding their hips together. After the Pamuk debacle, Mary had thought that the only thing that a woman could do was accept a man's caresses, and pray he would not collapse on top of her. Married life had helped her to discover a whole new world in which a woman was her husband's equal. It was very reassuring to notice that Richard was willing to play the same game, if the gaze he fixed on her was any indication.  
  
His hands were not idle, rising to cup a breast, tease a nipple, settling on her waist to increase her rhythm, slipping between their bodies…  
  
Like their first time, it was awkward, their rhythm was erratic at best – they did not know each other in that way, yet – but it did not stop Mary from biting her lips when she lowered herself onto him, enjoying how he remained motionless to give her time to adjust, taking delight in the way he filled her completely, physically, and emotionally. Very soon, heavy breathes filled her cabin, accompanied by muted moans and murmurs of each other's name.  
  
Yet, like their first time, Richard pressed her hip insistently to stop her movements.  
  
"Mary…"  
  
She groaned in frustration. Why didn't he let them finish?  
  
"I'm sorry," he panted. "But we can't afford…" His regretful smile told the rest of the story, and Mary had to fight a second of panic. She had been so lost in the moment that she had forgotten the world outside her cabin. Fortunately for her, Richard had remembered.  
  
With a sigh, she collapsed on the mattress, unsatisfied, on the verge of tears. Richard was her lover, not her husband; they had to be prudent, of course. The unwelcome, harsh reality had invited itself in their bubble.  
  
"C'mere, sweetheart."  
  
Obviously, Richard was still in the mood – another sign of his long experience, surely – and proceeded to kiss his way down her body, effectively rekindling her passion. His tongue teased her nipples before he went lower to her navel, making her squirm and tense under his touch. Then he went even lower, indicating her to spread her legs a little, kissing the inside of her thigh, until…  
  
"Richard?"  
  
A pair of amused eyes looked up at her. "What? Never done this before?" Instead of talking her into whatever plan he had devised, he kissed her between the legs, caressing her with his tongue with no warning.  
  
Mary had to close her eyes and stifle a moan. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that the aroused expression on his face revealed he enjoyed himself as much as she relished his ministrations. Noticing his raised eyebrow in a silent question, she nodded her approval. Seemingly content with her answer, he came back to his task once more, with unmistakable enthusiasm, using his tongue and fingers, bringing her to her release.  
  
Mary was still catching her breath when Richard began to try and attract her attention back to him with insistent kisses on her shoulder, in her neck, on her jaw, gently grabbing her hip, getting closer and closer, silently reminding her of the fact he was not finished yet. Feeling his arousal against her thigh and the instinctive movement of his hips, she decided she definitely had to work on her skills as an illicit lover. She let her hand wander down his lean and muscular body and wrap itself around his arousal, eliciting a relieved sigh from him. Richard rolled on his back, taking Mary with him, kissing her, combing her hair with his fingers as she caressed him until he let out a deep groan, and spilled himself.  
  
"Mary…"  
  
The expression on his face at this moment was breathtaking, and Mary did not want to leave the cocoon they had just made for themselves anytime soon.  
  
They were in trouble, both of them.  
  
-/-  
  
"Stop looking at me like that."  
  
For the last ten minutes, they had been lying on their sides, idly caressing each other, unable to put an end to the physical connection.  
  
"Like what?" Richard murmured, lost in the contemplation of the contrast of her messy short hair with the white pillow.  
  
Something had happened this time, he could feel it, and Mary knew it too. If not, she would not try to escape from his adoring observation. Richard would be lying if he said it had been the best experience in his life on a physical point of view. Married life had taught Mary a lot, but she lacked the audacity to which he was more accustomed. In return, he had been clumsier than usual, feeling like some youngster at times. However, saying that the experience had left him breathless emotionally would be a blatant euphemism. Never before had he felt such a connection to anyone.  
  
"Like that, as if you…" Her lower lip was trembling slightly.  
  
He stopped her ramblings with a kiss. No need to go this sad place yet.  
  
"I'm tough, I can handle it…" he lied. As if he had been able to handle the heartache the first time!  
  
Her raised and disapproving eyebrow showed Mary was not convinced either. Nonetheless, she continued playing with his mussed hair.  
  
"I don't feel deserving of any adoration, right now," came the sad confession. She did not dare meet his eyes.  
  
"Why?" What was he thinking? Of course, she would feel regret! All of this was nothing but an ephemeral dream.  
  
"I feel like I'm playing with you once more, and I'm not very proud of it," she admitted with a trembling voice, blinking her tears away.  
  
That was unexpected. Or not, if you considered their last conversation at Downton, their first honest talk in months, in years even.  
  
"It's different," he simply said, not really sure why the situation was different, but certain it was for reasons he could not explain for now.  
  
He leaned to claim her lips in a gentle kiss, willing her to stop blaming herself.  
  
"You've been unhappy, you needed a change, and I was the lucky passerby." As if it was that simple. "This," he gestured between them, "has nothing to do with our past." This was true. Richard had been in love with the girl who was his fiancé, deeply so, to the point of idiocy like his father said, but now, he was on the verge of falling hard for the woman in front of him. Two years of happiness and difficulties and heartbreak and hope had transformed her into an admirable woman. That was the first difference, yet he could not say it out loud.  
  
"For one," he skipped directly to the second reason that sprung in his clearer and clearer mind. It was as if the heavy fog that had invaded his brain for the last weeks lifted at last. "You're married, meaning that there can't be any string attached between us, no pressure. You can step back anytime you want, and I'll respect your wish. It's different."  
  
"Like you respected Eliza's decision?" She sounded curious now, curious and a bit unsettled. Obviously, she had not got used to such direct and open conversations in her marriage to Crawley.  
  
"Exactly." The memory of the way the artist had put an end to their relationship still stung a little to be honest. "I promise." That much he owed to Mary, given how he had behaved during the farce that their engagement had been.  
  
She reached for his unhurt hand, lifting it to her lips, still unable to look at him.  
  
"The thing is… I know I should be ashamed, but I can't, I…" she stopped in the middle of her sentence, kissing his fingers again.  
  
How could he answer this? He had abandoned the traditional constraints of moral long ago, and lived in a world more used to playing with these codes than respecting them. It was not only her marriage vows Mary had broken tonight but the edifice of moral values ingrained in her mind since her childhood. Even in the middle of the Atlantic, the weight of her family's expectations was present. The discovery that some selfishness was sometimes vital, and commendable, was far too recent for her… Mary had to learn and focus on her needs, only hers, and not her family's if she wanted walk out this whole ordeal healed and stronger. She had to stop listening to what others said or thinking about what they would say. Richard had learnt this lesson a long time ago, when his mother passed away: licking one's wounds was a lonely process, and one had to help oneself before even thinking about the others. Believing that self-sacrifice was a way to heal only lead to regrets - like his own father had confessed the night after Richard's trip to York - or even disaster. If thinking this way made a selfish man out of Richard, so selfish he was.  
  
"Mary, deep down, how do you feel?"  
  
She looked up, surprised, clearly not expecting this turn in their conversation, then closed her eyes, pondering her answer.  
  
"Good, incredibly good," she admitted at last with a shy smile that made him catch his breath. "But…"  
  
"No buts… I may be a little biased here, but how you feel is what must count. If you want me to leave, I'll go; if you want me to stay, I won't move a limb." Richard felt like a poker player with a pair of eights. "If you decide it's only for tonight, so be it, but…" he did not dare go further, for he feared to betray himself. Tonight, he had obtained everything he had wished for, all the answers that had gnawed at him since Christmas 1919. He had not been mistaken; they would have really had a chance, in the right context. Of course, he wanted more – he would be a fool not to – but finally knowing that he had not wasted his time and affections for a mirage, the fruit of his confused mind, was almost more than he could ask for.  
  
Tonight could give him closure at last, or it could offer a second he would never have dared to wish for. Whatever it was, he would wake up a happier man in the morning.  
  
"I shouldn't, but I don't want this to end," Mary mimicked his gesture. "It's irresponsible, selfish, but it feels right to me."  
  
"It doesn't have to end immediately, you know," Richard suggested hopefully. They seemed to want to same thing. "We still have ten days or so until we reach New York. We can decide then."  
  
She crept closer to him, her free arm snaking around his torso, her hand drawing invisible patterns along his spine.  
  
"I just want you to hold me. Even if it's so wrong…" she went on, snuggling against his chest, silently inviting him to hold her to sleep.  
  
"This I can do," Richard answered as he took her in his arms, trying to make light of a situation that was threatening to overwhelm him quickly. Unable to close his eyes, he contented himself to caress her hair as he listened to her falling asleep snuggled up against him.  
  
They were in trouble, both of them.


	11. Highland nights (part one)

Never travel together with your lover.  
  
Never appear in social gatherings together.  
  
Never leave a letter or a telegram behind.  
  
Never have a public fight with your husband.  
  
Actually, if you respected these basic rules, being a mistress was not difficult at all, especially when your lover was one of the most powerful men in Great Britain, the newly made Baron Glendyne, able to nip any burgeoning rumor in the bud.  
  
Two years.  
  
Mary contemplated the glorious scenery of the coastal Highlands as it unfolded in front of her. It was one of these days when the sun deigned to shed its light on the mountains to reveal the bright green of the pastures and the dark blue of the lakes. The train journey to Kyle of Lochalsh had seemed like an endless odyssey at first. But it was worth it. Every single minute of the journey through deserted areas, covered by heavy, rainy clouds most of time and the many changes in remote train stations was worth it.  
  
Soon, Mary would be in his arms once again, free to be simply a woman in love in the lonely kingdom he had created for himself, and had shared with her since the beginning of the affair.  
  
Two years.  
  
Two years of crumbles of happiness and deceit.  
  
Two years of moral hesitations and irresistible certainties.  
  
Since that night on the Syracuse two years ago, Richard Carlisle had been her lover, and she still did not want this to end, in spite of everything.  
  
Still, she hated so many things about this affair, the endless journeys on her own, the constant lies, the gnawing feeling she was betraying everything she had been taught since her early childhood, the horror at being unable, worse, unwilling to do anything to save what was left of her dreamed-of marriage to Matthew. Like so many times before, she had almost cancelled her plans and decided to stay at Duneagle Castle with her family and the MacClares who had recently returned from India.  
  
Mary wanted nothing more than leave the stuffy atmosphere of Duneagle, its ever present almost caricatured tradition, for the villages of the West coast, the smell of salty water and the taste of a fresh plate of sea shells under the shadows of the castle that Richard had been renovating for the past ten years. But, at the same time, the idea of leaving her parents alone with Lady Flintshire's expected bitter curiosity was unbearable. The failure of the marriage was Mary's and Matthew's problem, the affair was her choice, and the rest of the family, and their reputation, should not, could not suffer for these decisions.  
  
Mary's carriage jerked as the train slowed down to pass yet another bend, and suddenly, the sea appeared from nowhere, stuck between the abrupt green hills whose slopes ended in the dark blue water. She let a rueful smile form on her lips: in half an hour at the most, she would step down at Kyle of Lochalsh railway station, at last. To keep the well-known hesitations at bay and to fight the impatience and longing that had been building within her since the moment she had settled in the wagon in Inverness, Mary focused her attention on the scenery once more, expecting the walls of Eilean Donan to surge from the sea at any moment.  
  
The first time Richard had ever invited her to his little kingdom on the coast, Mary had spent the whole journey from Yorkshire – she had announced there was a surrealist exposition in Glasgow that she absolutely needed to visit, one preferably not organized by her lover – somewhat dreading the sight that expected her.  
  
It's just a castle I've bought when I obtained my knighthood. I've been renovating it ever since, and the money I've made with Haxby helped a great deal.  
  
After all, Richard had not proven his good taste when he had acquired Haxby and projected its renovation. During the long hours of her lonely journey across Northern England and Scotland, Mary had fought against the many doomed scenarios that assaulted her mind. The Haxby debacle had revealed so many things about their differences! How would she react to another disrespectful treatment of an abandoned estate? Their affair was precarious enough as it was. Why should they poison the few moments they could spend together with the same fatal ingredient that had heavily contributed to sour their engagement?  
  
Mary caught a glimpse of the reflection of the castle and its bridge on the water before discerning the main tower and the scaffoldings, amused at the reminiscence of these irrational fears. Firstly, Richard could have not done more damage to the castle than the former owners had, since it had been blown up during the Jacobite War, and left in ruin. Moreover, if Richard did not give a damn about English legacy – she was sure if another good bargain like Haxby presented itself to him, he would seize it with no qualm and proceed with the building in the same, tasteless manner – she had learned how attached he was to his own culture.  
  
How in love he was with this particular region of Scotland.  
  
He had not been born here. He had not spent his childhood here. This was not where his family lived and thrived, and God knew how he loved his clan!  
  
But it was where Richard wanted to grow old, where the restless man felt at home, in a kingdom of mountain and water.  
  
The renovation of Haxby had been a matter of rapidity and demonstration of the power given by money, a soulless project that had appalled Mary, and pushed her away. On the contrary, the renovation of Eilean Donan was a stubborn process of finding back a long forgotten past, of research in the archives and long discussions with the architect about the best way to combine modern comfort and the original structure.  
  
The only common point was that Richard spent his money on this project without counting, and Mary had to admit that the apartment-sized part of the castle where he lived during his stays in the region was a most convincing first result, from the simple but comfortable bedroom – with its furniture from the Stuart era – to the decadent bathroom and its view on the sea.  
  
Eilean Donan had been her lover's refuge for the last ten years, and he had shared it with her.  
  
More, by sharing this secret hiding place, Richard had revealed to Mary that it was possible to feel at home far away from one's birthplace.  
  
Away from Downton.  
  
As usual, as the train wound along the coast, Mary felt the familiar constriction in her chest, not entirely due to the imminent reunion with her lover.  
  
Of course, soon she would feel his hand in hers, taste the tobacco on his lips, smell his aftershave as he would engulf her in his welcoming embrace – there they did not have to hide, she was only Lady Mary, no surname, no reputation, the first woman Sir Richard had ever brought with him. Later, they would lay naked, intertwined in his bed, sweaty from their lovemaking, smiling mischievously as they would plot their next game.  
  
However, in between, they would have a long walk, hand in hand, in the village. Most probably, they would stop at one of the two restaurants and share a plate of smoked salmon. If the hour was right – she still had to improve her knowledge of this tides thing – they would scavenge the vast extent of mud and sand revealed by the ebb tide in search of crabs that Mrs. Hasting could prepare this evening. If the weather stayed this way, they would spend the rest of the afternoon lounging on the terrace of the pub with a cup of tea.  
  
The smile on her face widened as the train slowed down to enter the station.  
  
Amidst the smoke of the arriving train, she glimpsed Richard's silhouette as he was leaning against the wall, engrossed by whatever book he was reading. For once, the new glasses that unnerved him so much – he had already broken one pair playing with it, and lost another one – were firmly where they belonged, on his nose, and not in his breast pocket or clenched between his teeth.  
  
A pair of lovers and an old couple already.  
  
As soon as the train stopped, Mary retrieved her luggage – she had learnt to travel on her own for the last two years – and stepped out of her wagon, eager to gaze at Richard's smiling face.  
  
Anything to dissipate the sudden dread.  
  
Two years of crumbles of happiness.  
  
It was so fragile that any change, even an apparent good one, could destroy the precarious equilibrium.  
  
At the same time, if she wanted it to last longer, something had to change. They had been dancing on this narrow line for far too long, and decisions had to be made.  
  
With a bit of luck, they would keep their footing and they would grow old in Eilean Donan together, if only Richard let them.  
  
If their quarrel three months ago had not ruined everything.  
  
-/-  
  
The afternoon was drawing to a close. It was the moment when the shadows grew longer and longer, casting deformed patterns on the ground. A golden light reflected on the water, colored the mountains and the small, white houses scattered along the coast. Soon, the sun would totally disappear behind the summits of Skye and the sea-wind would make it impossible for Mary to remain seated on the terrace without asking for his coat.  
  
"To be honest, until the moment you stepped off the carriage, I half-expected not to see you…" Richard trailed on after a long, pensive silence.  
  
In spite of all his reservations, the longing produced by the three-month long separation had overwhelmed him as soon as he had glimpsed Mary on the platform, waving at him, her luggage at her feet.  
  
Smiling at him.  
  
All the reasonable arguments for ending their relationship he had elaborated in her absence had flown out of his mind instantly, and he had gladly and blindly plunged back into their deceptively domestic routine.  
  
Luncheon at McCauley's.  
  
A stroll by the loch – not the sea as he had explained to Mary again and again.  
  
Tea at Evans'.  
  
Not correcting the wrong assumptions about Lady Carlisle.  
  
Building a crystal bubble that threatened to burst into a thousand shards the longer their affair lasted.  
  
"To be fair, I almost didn't," she admitted, her head tilted, as if she tried to escape his scrutiny. "I was afraid to leave my parents alone at Duneagle with an inquisitive Aunt Susan."  
  
"The MacClares are back in Inverness? Wonderful…" Richard made a mental note to send a telegram to warn his father before he left Edinburgh to visit their family in the North.  
  
"Is there a problem I'm not aware of?" Mary enquired, obviously glad for this change in their conversation.  
  
Richard took the hand she had put on his knee to turn on her chair and stare at him directly.  
  
"Well, I told you that the MacClares and my mother's family aren't exactly in good terms?"  
  
"Yes, and I've heard horrid stories about the Dunbars since the first time I visited Duneagle for the first time."  
  
"But, clearly, they never told you about the time when my father put the MacClare boy headfirst into a barrel of cod because he refused to leave one of our cousin alone," he explained, apologetically kissing the tip of her gloved fingers.  
  
"James? My cousin James?"  
  
"Well, I was out of the country at the time, but, from what I gathered, my father gave him the proper scolding the boy desperately needed at the time, or so my old man said."  
  
A slight crease appeared on Mary's forehead as she considered this new piece of valuable information. Richard loved it when she did that. He leaned toward her, absently playing with her fingers as he patiently waited for her to draw her conclusions.  
  
"Now, I remember that James changed radically in the course of the summer of 1908," she reminisced, barely controlling her giggling. "All of a sudden, he had decided to stop bothering me and Patrick, and to focus on the university exams he had royally ignored for the best part of the holidays, much to his parents' relief."  
  
"Blame my father for that…"  
  
"Congratulate him, you mean!" Her laughter became contagious. "James made quite a career after that, you know."  
  
"I'm afraid Lord Flintshire doesn't agree with your assessment of the situation," he replied, failing to control his laughter.  
  
"I think that's because of the infamous nickname that will accompany James till his grave in Inverness. Is that also your father's invention? Cody? Really?"  
  
"That indeed sounds like one of my father's puns. Still, I didn't know the nickname had had such a long existence," he asked, hating the feeling that he was missing something really funny.  
  
"You never heard it from me, swear it." Mary's lips were smiling, but her eyes were serious. Or half-serious.  
  
"I swear," Richard answered good-naturedly, raising his right hand like a schoolboy.  
  
"Lord Flintshire's nickname is Shrimpy…"  
  
This made Richard's eyes open wide.  
  
"Good Lord… I swear my father didn't know about it…" He made profit of the fact she was facing him and claimed her lips for a light kiss. When she raised a suspicious eyebrow, he went on: "Had he known, he would have come out with something much, much worse." He managed to steal another kiss before sitting back in his chair.  
  
The hell with any thought of serious conversation, those moments were too precious and he could not abandon them, even if it meant he was utterly pathetic. Both of them had already broken all the rules they had agreed to set when the affair begun, repeatedly.  
  
No jealousy. No pettiness. No strings attached.  
  
He would never complain about her marriage.  
  
She would never complain about his occasional flings with well-known actresses.  
  
No encounter would be taken for granted.  
  
The first time one of them broke one of these basic rules, the affair would be over. That was what they had agreed upon.  
  
Yet…  
  
Mary was more and more unable to keep the venom out of her voice when she evoked the latest pretty brunette she had seen at his arm on the covert of some magazine.  
  
Richard's bitterness about Matthew's very existence came out more often than not, almost as much as the fact that the affair as it existed satisfied him less and less.  
  
The quarrel that had preceded this separation, their first real dispute since Christmas 1919 in fact, was the obvious sign that they should put an end to the relationship. The last two years had been wonderful, and Richard did not want these memories to be tarnished by resentment.  
  
It was how all his affairs had ended in the past, with a clean, friendly break, with no heartbreak. All the signs were there, he should get out of here as soon as he could, and stay unscathed. He could have used this separation as an occasion to finalize the break-up. That was what he would have done, with any other woman than Mary.  
  
Instead, he had written her to make amends and rebuild bridges, and awaited her answer anxiously. When he had read her letter, he had not thought twice and invited her to Eilean Donan, to the very place where they could forget about the outside world and ignore unwanted reality, the place where playful conversation soon replaced serious attempts at rationalizing what was going on between them.  
  
Richard felt like a pathetic, weak man.  
  
Still, if it meant he could keep on sharing quiet afternoons by the loch and passionate nights like the one Mary's tender expression promised, he found that he did not mind it.  
  
Not at all.  
  
The sun had disappeared behind the mountains, now, and the slight shiver of Mary's shoulders was the usual telltale sign she was getting uncomfortable. The woman was so stubborn she would never admit out loud she was freezing and would rather let her clicking teeth speak for her.  
  
"Shall we go home?" he proposed, cringing at his unconscious and revealing slip-out. Richard got up and offered his jacket, as usual.  
  
"Please," she accepted the invitation, and the jacket, giving no sign of having caught the significance of his words.  
  
Silently, they walked to the car, his left hand in his pocket, his right arm around her shoulders. By his side, Mary leant into his warmth, the way she snuggled tenderly against him, her arm around his waist, her whole posture full of promise for the night to come.


	12. Highland nights (part two)

"You know that was the very reason I used to hate you?"  
  
Mary broke the silence, speaking almost absently as she expertly loosened the necktie with which she had bound around his wrists. Intrigued by the rather confusing confession, and still too out of breath to answer, Richard raised an inquisitive eyebrow.  
  
His lover did not carry on with her thoughts at first, and finished to free him from the silky fabric instead. Transfixed, he observed her in the faint golden glow of the fireplace. Tiny beads of perspiration had formed between her small breasts, on her forehead. Her ordinarily perfectly sculpted coif was a total mess – he had seen to that, burying his fingers in the short curls before she decided to deprive him from the use of his hands. The light flush on her cheeks indicated that he had answered the plea she had uttered earlier as she had wrapped her arms around his waist, under his jacket.  
  
"Warm me up."  
  
Once more, they had not even reached his bedroom, and had settled on the sofa by the fire he had lit as soon as they had stepped inside. Central heating at Eilean Donan was still a distant dream.  
  
On the other hand, holding Mary in his arms, surrendering to her kisses and caresses, all of this was a very solid reality, as imperfect as it was. Three months of separation had been too much. How could he ever have entertained the idea of a break up?  
  
Finished with tie, Mary discarded it on the floor before reaching for the plaid that Richard had placed on the back of the sofa for her first visit to the castle, when she had complained of the bone chilling cold that reigned there. She wrapped it around them and cuddled against him, although saying that Mary disappeared between the cover and his shoulder, would be a more apt description.  
  
Richard could not help to let out a chuckle as he contemplated the brown hair spiking from under the plaid, the only visible sign of her, while the way she worked a leg between his, caressing his calf with her toes, gently teasing him with her thigh, was a very sensitive reminder of her presence.  
  
When he noticed she would not pursue her line of thought further, choosing instead to draw abstract patterns on his chest, Richard encouraged her to pick up the conversation again.  
  
"So you used to hate me? That's breaking news…" he commented, trying not to dwell too much on their difficult past.  
  
Trying not to let out his deep rooted bitterness.  
  
"Because I was a manipulative bastard? Because I was a blackmailing arse?" he prodded for an answer.  
  
Mary could not initiate such conversations then keep silent. Not after what she had done to him just minutes before. He felt himself harden at the simple thought of her hands divesting him from his shirt and undershirt, tying his wrists above his head, pushing him gently on the cushions, of her sloppy kisses down his chest to the bulge in his trousers, of her mouth… Powerless, he had contemplated her as she had teased him, brought him to the edge then retreated, three times, before taking pity and straddling him, guiding him inside her with a playful glint in her eyes.  
  
In fact, her whole attitude since she had stepped off the carriage had been intriguing, maddening even. To be honest, her behavior for the last six months had been puzzling and unnerving .  
  
Back in January, Mary had phoned at the last moment to cancel a rendezvous and, three weeks later, she had not allowed Richard to get out of the bed when they had met in Glasgow.  
  
In March she had appeared at a London ball organized by her aunt, at which Richard had also been in attendance, and displayed with her husband all the signs of a newly found complicity, reminding Richard of the worst moments of their engagement. And she had called him the very next day to schedule an unexpected night at their favorite hotel in town.  
  
These erratic patterns had infuriated him to no end, ultimately leading to their quarrel three months ago. Richard was tired of her hesitations, but he could not walk away, just the way he had been unable years before.  
  
Sometimes, he hated himself for it.  
  
"Because I couldn't help desiring you…" Mary went on at last, her voice a bit muffled by the cover from under which she had not emerged yet, as if she was seeking refuge.  
  
Against what, Richard could not say.  
  
"I was in love with Matthew, but when you visited Downton, I had these dreams, and you were the one I was kissing, the one I was touching. I hated you for awaking such lustful feelings, and I despised myself for them," she confessed, snuggling closer if it was possible.  
  
There was nothing he could answer to such an admission.  
  
"After Pamuk, I convinced myself that these desires were… dirty, that my only redemption was Matthew's love."  
  
A sudden feeling of dread submerged him, as if she had knocked the air out of his lungs. What if he had not been the only one thinking of putting an end to the affair?  
  
"Mary…"  
  
They were walking on thin ice.  
  
"Mary," he urged. "Please look at me, sweetheart."  
  
At last, she emerged from under the plaid, her bottom lips slightly quivering, and not from the cold, her eyes shimmering.  
  
That was it. That was goodbye.  
  
Richard did not want it to be.  
  
"I was wrong," she carried on, her hand crawling down his belly in a very familiar way.  
  
He closed his eyes, hesitating between surrendering to her diversion and finishing this conversation once and for all.  
  
Her fingers knew him so well, now, and he swelled in anticipation.  
  
Reluctantly, he reached for her hand and stopped her ministrations, biting his lips in frustration at the loss of her touch.  
  
"Wrong about what?" he enquired.  
  
Like when she had told him to join her in the smoking room back in 1919, dread constricted his throat. Obviously, Mary had made a decision during their separation – he could recognize the way she tiptoed around it – and he was afraid of hearing it.  
  
Mary lowered her eyes, as if she was unable to look at him.  
  
"Matthew and I…" she took a deep breath and began after what seemed an eternity.  
  
Richard closed his eyes, steeling himself against the inevitable announcement.  
  
Matthew and I have decided to give our marriage another chance.  
  
Matthew and I have discovered we still love each other.  
  
Matthew and I have decided Downton needed an heir.  
  
Matthew and I are expecting again.  
  
Matthew, Matthew, Matthew once again. How could he have been so stupid?  
  
"Matthew and I divorced two months ago," Mary said at last.  
  
What?  
  
-/-  
  
Fearfully, carefully, Mary rose from her shelter under the plaid to study Richard's reaction to the news of her divorce. Since the day Matthew and she had walked out of the courtroom in York, no longer husband and wife, but friends again, at last, she had agonized over the attitude to adopt with her lover.  
  
How would Richard receive such news?  
  
Would he want to marry her?  
  
Would the womanizer in him take charge and send him running away? His growing jealousy seemed to indicate his wish to have a proper relationship, like he used to in the past. At the same time, Mary could not help but fear that Richard's bitter comments last winter were nothing more than a case of wanting something he could not have... How else could interpret the very satisfied smirk she had spied on the Sketch cover back in April? Was this the face of man really wanting more from her? Richard was a womanizer and she was afraid that the thrill of the affair was a greater component in their relationship for him than for her...  
  
However, all of this was a moot point if their quarrel back in April had already closed the door her divorce was supposed to open.  
  
During last Servants Ball, Mary had walked out to escape from the increasingly stiffling atmosphere of Downton traditions.  
  
To ponder on her past decisions, and the ones she would soon have to make.  
  
In an ironic repetition of the moment when Matthew had proposed her, her husband had joined her on the terrace.  
  
He wanted to talk about their marriage.  
  
Her throat constricted by the fear of hearing him asking for another chance; she had listened to his apologies, barely acknowledging them.  
  
Some things were not forgivable.  
  
Then, the noble and selfless Matthew she had loved and admired so much came back from the dead, to offer her freedom back.  
  
He knew she was seeing someone.  
  
He wanted her to be happy, and this man made her happy, obviously.  
  
He was tired of this bitter marriage.  
  
He wanted to be friends again.  
  
In 1919, two children had twirled under the snow, deluded with belief that they were the heroes of some fairytale. Four years later, two adults had agreed to rebel against the rules of their world.  
  
Our lot does not get a divorce.  
  
Six months later, they had managed to cheat the justice and persuade the judge that, indeed, Matthew had a mistress he visited regularly in Ripon.  
  
That, like so many former soldiers, he was prone to bouts of depression and even violence.  
  
At first, she had refused this scenario, but Matthew had insisted. It was his way of apologizing for the cutting, unforgivable words he had thrown at her after the miscarriage. And he had played the role to the perfection, fooling everyone around them, so much that her father had threatened to throw his once beloved heir out, to disown him.  
  
For two months, Mary had been a free, divorced woman. And now, she observed her lover's reaction as the realization sank in, the changing expressions on his face, in his eyes revealing the train-wreck of his emotions.  
  
Pure surprise.  
  
Incomprehension.  
  
Dawning understanding.  
  
A little bit of shame.  
  
Unspoken relief.  
  
Unadulterated dread.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?" he managed at last, his voice strained, his blue eyes darting from side to side, unable to settle on her face.  
  
"I wanted my divorce and our relationship to be separate things entirely," Mary explained honestly as she took his chin to force him to look at her. "I needed to be sure, once and for all, that we were more than a symptom of my failed marriage."  
  
"And we aren't?"  
  
He sounded almost boyish.  
  
"Why do you think I'm here?" she smiled, kissing his clenched jaw. "Stop doing that, you're going to break another tooth."  
  
To further her point, her fingers began to massage the point next to his temple in order to make him relax his jaw. After a few seconds, he relented and moved it from side to side, trying to release the tension.  
  
"You're here… to stay?" he whispered, furrowing his brow, as if deep in thought.  
  
This was the Rubicon they had to cross. Mary knew what she wanted. In spite of the affair, she was a conservative woman, and could not imagine herself going on without being married to Richard. However, would he give up his lifestyle for her? As the divorce proceedings neared finality, the gnawing thought had become an obsession, and the mere sight of her lover with some actress at his arm had begun to fill her with irrational fears and hesitations. Even worse, would he be willing to subject himself to her family once again? Matthew had gone to India, accepting a proposition of a former fellow officer from the war who needed a lawyer and a counselor. But Downton was still full of hurt Crawleys who tried to adjust to the idea that their dream was over.  
  
"If you want me to," she stated simply.  
  
"In that case, you're awfully unprepared. Just one piece of luggage?"  
  
Mary let out a deep, shaky sigh of relief.  
  
Then, she let a hopeful grin form on her lips: typical Richard, clenching to the material side of things when the situation threatened to be overwhelming. She decided to take the line he had thrown at her. There was time later for continuing the more serious conversation they needed to have.  
  
"Well, I'm in luck: my lover is one of the richest men in Great Britain," she deadpanned, her hand resuming her journey down his belly. She could feel his renewed arousal against her thigh. "I suppose he can spare a few pounds to buy me a dress or two once we get back to civilization."  
  
Suddenly, Richard's expression grew serious, all trace of playfulness disappearing from his face. Abruptly, he straightened up, took her by the shoulders and rolled them over in the cushions. For a moment, he hovered over her, silent, staring at her as if it was the first time he had seen her naked. The combined loss of the plaid that lay forgotten on the ground and Richard's bodily warmth made her shiver.  
  
"Please do remember that your future husband is a Scot and hates useless expenses."  
  
His words were playful, but his gaze was intense, possessive even. How could she ever have doubted his intentions?  
  
Richard had said it all many years ago.  
  
"I want you to marry me.  
  
Because I think very highly of you.  
  
I mean it. I think we'd do well together. We could be a good team.  
  
Oh I can talk about "love" and "moon" and "June" and all the rest of it if you wish. But we're more than that. We're strong and sharp, and we can build something worth having, you and I, if you'll let us.  
  
I'm counting on it."  
  
If anything, Richard was quite a stubborn man. He had wanted her then, and, from his aroused expression, he wanted her now.  
  
Early on during their affair, Mary had discovered that Richard enjoyed it when she took control of their lovemaking, as if surrendering to her initiatives in the intimacy of their bed was the necessary counterpart to the permanent control he displayed in his daily business. In return, she had found it very heady to get to push down the man so many feared in London on the mattress, straddle him, tie him down, make him beg for release. This was their game and only theirs. At times, she had wondered if his constant compliance to her commands in bed was not some kind of refuge he had built to protect his last shred of vulnerability. Some other times, she had imagined it had been his own twisted way to put the times when he had made her feel powerless behind them. On the other hand, from the reactions that she could get from him when she bound a tie around his head to blind him or told him to stay still as she massaged him from head to toe, she always had the feeling that he simply enjoyed himself, that he loved it when she took control.  
  
Right now, Richard hovered silently over her, his arms tight as ropes, plain hunger and possessiveness written on his face. He did not often take control of their lovemaking, but when he did…  
  
At last, he lowered himself on one elbow, coercing her legs open with his free hand, caressing her. The glint in his eyes when he noticed how ready Mary already was made her bite her lips and release a shaky breath. Supple as a cat, he knelt back, his hands traveling down to her ankles. Knowing what he wanted, Mary let herself be dragged down the cushions and lifted her long legs, hooking them around his waist as he resumed his former position. A tender smile rewarded her cooperation. Then, wordlessly but never breaking the eye contact he entered swiftly, helped by the way she had angled her hips – they knew each other so much by now. When her hands rested on his backside – her silent sign to tell him she was ready – he began his relentless rhythm, his eyes still fixed on hers as if he was concluding a silent business with her.  
  
No more hiding. No more secret meetings. A legitimate and reciprocal relationship, at last.  
  
This had been his dream from the very beginning, a dream she shared now.  
  
Lady Mary Carlisle did not sound so bad, after all.  
  
Like when she had announced her divorce moments before, Mary studied his expression as he moved within her, the beads of perspiration on his brow, the tension of his neck and arms, the way his eyes closed when he approached his climax, the strangled moans he let escape at that moment. Her own release took her by surprise, and she clenched around him.  
  
And for the first time ever in their relationship, Richard lost control. He collapsed on his elbows, burying his face in neck, kissing her shoulder to stifle his moans, spilling himself in her.  
  
He had not pulled out.  
  
The condom lay forgotten on the ground.  
  
With a bit of luck, they would have to marry a bit sooner than was proper. Her family would strangle themselves when they would read the announcement in the papers. His sister would probably want to strangle her, and his father would watch her every move, waiting for her first misstep.  
  
This was a nightmare in the making.  
  
Mary did not care.  
  
As long she got to grow old in Eilan Donan, as long as she was the only brunette on Richard's arm on the magazines covers, as long as there would be glorious parties in London and secret visits to the Glasgow Botanical Garden, as long as they would spend entire afternoons not uttering a single word, engrossed in their books, as long as they would have endless fights about the organization of the house or the children's education followed by unforgettable nights, Mary did not care.  
  
Richard had rolled onto his back, taking her with him. Mary bit her lips not to grin – she did not want to alarm him, yet. Intrigued, he raised an inquisitive eyebrow as he caressed her back absently. In response, she crossed her arms on his chest and settled her chin on her hands, her grin morphing into a full smile.  
  
"So, where will you take me for our honeymoon?"


End file.
